The Starry Turnabout
by Gazelle City
Summary: When a young popstar is arrested for killing an obsessive fan, Phoenix Wright becomes tangled in the amoral and cutthroat entertainment industry. Rumour can prove more important than truth in a world where reputation is everything, yet the powerful seem untouchable... Can Phoenix do what's right by his client and by himself?
1. I - The Crime & Phoenix Alone

The last train was gone before he'd even reached the station, but he still felt the echoes of its wheezing metal fading in the void of night. His senses were dim – he'd had too much to drink before the concert, easing his nerves, and there was the predictable result. By the time his eyes had processed that he was stranded, his mind was bounding forward, dauntless. Echoes of her last song began to resonate with every inch of his body. It pulsed through him, an inviolable command. He smiled despite himself. A new dark made him twitch.

Hanging around the streets like something spectral, he revelled in that peculiar loneliness one feels only at their most free. There wouldn't be another train home until the early morning – he had the city to himself, to embrace in its totality, and enough rum-and-cokes in his system to feel fearless. The night was his. No-one in the city knew him, and he could walk its cobblestones tasting the alcoholic-emotional flavour of a living glee.

The mind was a cloud stretching at every angle, threatening to break and vanish into the dark. It contented itself in detached observation of its own body. He was studying his feet with ardent curiosity as he walked. It looked and felt so simple, walking, yet he was entranced by his perambulations. His stride was quick and steady – how did he manage it? Wasn't it remarkable that he was moving at all? It didn't matter as to where he was going; the beauty of the night-walk lay in the physicality of it. Everything was so inexplicably lovable! He was a living presence on the streets; (a moment passed - he recognised a figure turn into the footpath so as not to impede his movement) his being resounded upon earth. In the bustle of the everyday, so entangled in the movement, the happening of everyone else, it was hard to believe he was alive at all and not a golem shaped in clay, reanimated by the life-breath of another.

Was being drunk the only reason he felt so alive right now? No. Cilla's concert started it all. She inspired a new and private mirth. He remembered shame, a mixed cocktail of effeminacy and mute understanding. He hadn't worried he was weird, he _knew_ that. He was at a crossroads in encountering women of whom, when tastes in music broached conversation, neither laughed outright at him for liking a girly pop singer, nor took his preferences as a code for homosexuality. A quizzical eyebrow was about as much as he'd get by way of social signals that he was abnormal, and that was fine. He couldn't relate to girls his age by pretending to be gay. He was _painfully_ straight, and women could sense that about him. He made them uneasy...but those thoughts jerked away as soon as they'd began. He didn't need to worry about others. He was alone – he went to the concert alone, he'd enjoyed it alone, and now the city seemed empty, inhabited by stray bodies without distinct faces, abstracted and without judgment.

He pulled the sleeve of his anorak to the elbow. The anodyne black of the watch's digital display was too hard to read in the darkening night. Gooseflesh on his pale skin bristled. How long would he have to stay in the cold? His expenses: a concert ticket, a return train ticket, a watercress-on-rye sandwich and all the social lubricant necessary to keep the motor going. He had no money for a warm bed. Pulling the sleeve back, he crossed his arms and pictured her emergent from sunlight. A radiant girl with shining auburn locks, cheeks aglow, like rosy-fingered dawn, a hand outstretched, beckoning him closer. A gaze suggesting that he belonged. Her song overlaid the image, solidifying it. She was a waking dream.

He stumbled. Spasming. She was gone. He was alone in the alley and it was dark and it was cold, much colder than he'd realised. He was leaning against a dumpster to steady himself and the tips of his fingers slid across the surface of the lid all red and without feeling. What was he doing? Drunk and alone, shiftless, in the gutter without a plan, shivering his life away. How could he even _imagine_ someone like her? It was an embarrassment on the name of her celebrity that a human reject could stand askew in coldest winter, picturing her radiance, as if attending her concert, seeing her perform some hours before gave him some right to contemplate the face of an angel?

Do the fleas in a dog's fur hope to be loved for what they are? Does plankton dream? He was something miniscule before the infinitesimal, dirt of the scorched earth after the end. He was defacing the object of his desire in his worship. Thinking too much of himself. He held himself inward, cheek to the alley wall, until the numbing cold began to feel almost warm again.

He dimly recalled a hotel past the street at the end of the alleyway – maybe he could sit in the reception there and warm himself for half-an-hour before he had to face the streets again. He started walking again – his feet heavy now, stumbling uncertain, awkward mounds of flesh and bone. As he staggered forward, the figure of someone coalesced from the shadowy dark. Slender, shorter than him, head bowed, arm against the wall, retching. He approached. They raised their head slowly, agonisingly to face him. Her slender body was half-caked in mud and she looked like she'd fell into a puddle. She looked sickly and her eyes were red and tearful. A stale, putrid of stench of alcohol escaped her lips. It was Cilla, she stood wavering before him like a zombie. She was in the gutter too. She was with him. She stared into him, her eyes huge, appearing like solid cyan stone. Fearful eyes. Another hallucination? No—he'd never imagined her in wildest reverie in the state she was in now. It was too real; it disorientated him. Her lips moved but she could not hear his voice. He felt his throat swell but knew not the words he spoke. And the seconds slowed weighted by a new gravity, and his eyes seemed to watch the girl before him as though they were a closed-camera somewhere above them, and away from her transfixing gaze he saw the gun in her hands.

And a force knocked him back, and his eyes fell upward. Where the world felt hazy before it roared with life now. The coldest nights had the most starry skies. That was something he knew before he'd ever directly perceived it. A fact of life, true regardless of human observation. Still, it was something he observed with a delirious, waning delight. The stars above the city seemed to mirror the thousands of lights of street-lamps and buildings. He lay on the ground, seeing it at a distance, but not without the feeling of being tangible and alive. It seemed to last a lifetime.

Monday, 4th December

9:32 

Wright Anything Agency

They say you can never know how much you appreciate something until it's gone. They're probably right, but fail to mention how you can never know how much you appreciate something _being_ gone until it is. Apollo, Athena, Trucy – none of them greeted me when I got to the office. Everything was quiet. It was like being in a warm bubble-bath, but with a suit on. I sat by the window with my morning coffee and noticed some birds building a nest on a tree nearby. Never been much for birdwatching. It was nice. Peaceful. Noiseless. Nobody jumping out from behind brandishing a whip or objecting to my acquired calm. Not boring at all, actually – I don't know why birdwatching would have that reputation. I made a mental note to buy a guidebook at the next bookshop I encountered. There were no major trials coming up this month, so maybe I could take a break, go out to the country...I'd have to take a bus, or maybe a train...was there any national parks in the area? I could treat myself to a really neat set of binoculars and camp out somewhere, just me and the birds...

Oh God. Birdwatching? Trucy's right. I'm getting old. Think I found a grey hair this morning...Old age, huh. I guess it's supposed to come pretty gracefully for a lawyer. Affords us a certain dignity, a _gravitas_ , a... _je ne sais quoi_. I've been around the block, I know the score. I don't think there's a single case that could really shock me anymore. Trials should come naturally, work should be almost _relaxing_. Why is it that if I'm left alone for five minutes, I start to confront my own mortality?! I don't miss Apollo. I'm sure he's raising hell in Khura'in – maybe 'raising hell' is the wrong phrase. I'm sure he's doing well. Athena is still coming into her own as a lawyer, but she never lacks for tenacity. Her energy inspires everybody. She was so excited about her new case, I struggled to get coherent details. The victim was found dead on a beach with nothing on him, save for an unused bus ticket and a scrap of paper in the pocket of his trousers that said in big black letters 'HERE ENDETH'. Nobody knows where he came from, or how he died – the prosecution are pursuing a poisoning charge and going after a strange would-be 'alchemist' Athena was somehow roped into defending... She's certain that the guy is innocent, but even if she gets him off the hook, I doubt he has a red cent to pay legal fees. That's one big mistake Athena's picked up from me – not knowing how to get money for your hard work! Not that money's the most important thing in the world, it'd just be nice to go to a fancy restaurant now and then, and maybe not have to be satisfied with daydreaming about such an opulent purchase as a nice pair of binoculars...

Trucy's gone off to assist Athena. She's been struggling with magician's block for awhile; waiting for a dash of inspiration to create a new magnificent illusion. So she was seduced by the drama of Athena's new case, and ran off with her. Can't wait to talk about the frequencies of Trucy's absences from school at the next parent-teacher meeting... I guess even for something as important as education one can make sacrifices if it's for something they're really passionate about. If Trucy comes home with a great new trick, I'm happy. I'd also be happy if she stopped playing the bassoon when she comes back. Teenage girls with creative difficulties come up with such awful coping methods. I have no idea why she thought playing discordant notes on a bassoon in the early hours of the morning would provide an atmosphere for thaumaturgical discovery. To be honest, I was afraid to ask. With that racket gone, I can finally have some alone-time. Me, Phoenix Wright, successful lawyer, in his office, alone with his thoughts...

I wonder what's on TV?

Local news, a press conference. A tall, bald white man in a shocking white suit stands before a podium decked out in microphones with numerous news company logos slapped on. The image quality is oversaturated; he is grimacing at the camera, the skin around his mouth and neck loose and wrinkled. Then he raises his head, eyes unblinking at the camera in front of him, lips now turned into a cool sneer, a display of complete control.

'I have little to say to the media at this present time. Information is scarce, and to embark on speculations so soon would be damaging to both the victim and my client. She has surrendered to the authorities and is now in police custody; she will speak to no-one but her legal counsel as authorised by me while in detention – do not test the patience of myself or the authorities in attempting any form of _gonzo journalism._ I would make it known that the authorities are conducting an investigation of equal importance regarding the actions of the deceased as they are into my client's actions last night. We are, of course, suspending the tour immediately and aspire to work in complete co-operation with the investigation. I expect reportage of the case as it stands will restrain itself with the facts as they are made available and that there will be no crass, tawdry sensationalism on the part of anyone. A man has been killed, and regardless of my client's involvement in his death, she is as deeply troubled in his passing as any honest citizen. I will take questions. Be brief.'

A voice from behind the screen. 'Is it true that the victim attended Ms. Kay-White's concert in the hours before his death?'

'I'm awaiting confirmation on that detail.'

'How is this impacting the wider scheme of performances planned by your record company, Mr Coen?'

'I will say nothing of music in this conference – it is not my concern at this moment.'

'Do you have anything to say about rumours of Ms. Kay-White being violent towards members of staff at her hotel?'

'No.'

'My sources say she was drunk and possibly on illicit substances after the concert, perhaps even during. Do many artists on your label use illicit substances, Mr Coen?'

'I'm sure not as many as they who fill your newsroom, sir.'

Coen's comment filled the conference with a mixture of laughter and uproar. The congregated journalists began arguing amongst themselves. Coen stood imperious above them, sneering as a prince before his peons. His condescension toward the journalists egged them on. The conference ended, returning to a newscaster's response, the headline accompanying the story in bold lettering: 'POP IDOL CILLA IN CUSTODY FOR MURDER INVESTIGATION'. I turned the volume down, but kept the TV on. A popstar in suspicion for murder? That kind of story was grist for the media mill no matter how you put it. No doubt it was going to become a fixture in the news and the papers for the weeks to come.

Watching the news always made me kinda uneasy. It was something everyone was just supposed to do – watch the news, read the news, see what's happening. From my window, I could see birds building a nest in a tree, and watch people walk up and down the street, getting on with their busy lives. The sky was blue, the sun was out, the day was warm but not too hot, the wind was gentle. It was a nice, simple morning. The world didn't seem so bad. That sort of feeling doesn't last long if you turn on the TV and go online, though. War, famine, millions in poverty...People hear about so many awful things in the news that they go _numb_. They have to pretend to care, but not allow themselves to really care. Because what can they do about all the bad things out there? Everyone's just trying to get through the day.

I was reading a newspaper the other day about an interview with one of the country's leading forensic pathologists. Sure, I've seen some terrible things having to work as many murder trials as I've done, but this guy had been working for over 30 years, performing autopsies on thousands of bodies. He was a professional, but the horror of his work built up slowly, destroyed his mental health, and contributed to the collapse of his marriage. He kept going to work because he felt he was doing some good. If the autopsy reports in my cases weren't medically accurate, maybe innocent people could've gone to prison, so I _know_ he was doing good, but he voiced something I'd never put to words despite feeling it gnawing away at my insides. The dead don't come back, not even with spirit channelling. They don't get a real grasp of life again, of what living is like. I like to think that over the course of my career, I've done good – more good than bad. I've helped people when no-one else would. At the end of the day, the criminal in my sights doesn't escape justice. But justice itself doesn't bring _good_ into the world. It's a response to a crime, an effort to balance the scales. If I work to the very best of my ability, I make the world a little bit fairer, a little bit less cruel. But the dead stay dead. The justice I serve can't provide for them.

I kept one eye on the news report while I poured another cup of coffee and took one of my heavy legal tomes from my bookcase. Cynical as it is, murder's good for business. A lawyer that isn't in touch with the big and small cases of his profession isn't someone to trust. To a degree, I'd made it pretty far without truly standing on my own feet. I had Mia helping me far past the point a mentor should help _anyone_. Maya, Pearl, Ema, Trucy – they all stood by my side and supported me in rough times. I taught Apollo and Athena as best as I could, but I found they taught me a lot as well. They still do. Without Edgeworth, how could I be the man I am today? I should never rest on my laurels. My name might mean something in the legal world, but I didn't get where I am by my efforts alone. That's why I've started trying to expand my knowledge of legal theory. Case histories, obscure by-laws, jurisprudence...I don't intend to get caught cold in the courtroom confronting my ignorance again. A lawyer should never stop learning. The book I'm reading now is _The Evolution of Prosecution to the Present Day_ , a weighty tome – must be fifteen-hundred pages, in small print – by someone named G.A. Carver. I wonder if, in my twilight years, I might sit down and write some legal memoirs about my long career. If I did so, would my author name be 'Phoenix Wright'? Or should I go for something more formal like 'P.S. Wright', or 'P.P. Wright.' I guess the extra initial would be for my middle name. What's my middle name again? Did Mom and Dad even give me one?

My concentrated efforts to recall my own name were interrupted by the phone ringing.

'Hello, this is Wright Anything Agency.'

'Hello, this is Babel Records. Our company is interested in soliciting the services of Mr. Phoenix Wright for an upcoming trial. If Mr Wright is in the office may I be able to speak with him?'

'No problem; you are. I'm Phoenix Wright. To whom am I speaking?'

'Oh, M-Mr Wright... you answer your own phone. I'm Friday, the assistant of Mr. Coen, the owner and president of Babel Records. I don't suppose you've heard of us?'

'I hadn't, but I just turned on the news, so—'

'Yes, we were afraid you might've seen something in the media before we had the chance to talk to you in person. Mr. Coen would be very interested in meeting you – you're available to meet him, I trust?'

'That might be possible, I'm actually quite busy with various forms of legal work at the moment, so—'

'We're certain you're a busy man, but with your attorneys Apollo Justice and Athena Cykes away from the office at present, we're sure your firm is not so inured in work you cannot hear out Mr. Coen's proposition. You will of course, be billed for your time regardless of whether or not you choose to represent us following the meeting. We'll pay any fee.'

'In... that case...What time works for Mr. Coen?'

And just like that, I was out of the office and heading to the city's financial district and the offices of Babel Records. A guy's gotta earn his bread somehow. G.A. Carver can wait another day.


	2. II - Accepting the Case

Monday, 4th December

11:00

Babel Records 

Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty...I don't have elevator phobia or anything but this feels a little surreal. As the elevator ascended, I stared out at the panorama of the city. The Calvino Building was the biggest skyscraper in the city, so tall it felt like it grazed the moon. Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three. People on the streets shrank to insignificant specks. The world widened. Cars became pebbles dotted around the city-beach. It was hard to believe I lived down there, one of the small people, only a few minutes ago. Thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six. Was it normal to feel lightheaded? How did anyone manage to work up here? I'd be too busy standing at a balcony, arms outstretched, laughing like a tyrant at the land I ruled. And I'm not saying that because it's some sort of fantasy of mine – I just find it hard to believe that anyone could work so above the reality of everyday life without becoming arrogant and superior. Thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine. We'd never stop rising, not until I could glance down and spit on the whole world beneath my feet. Forty. A little ding, and the elevator stopped. Despite my dizzying account of the high life, Babel Records wasn't even close to the top of the Calvino Building. I don't know if I could keep my legs steady, having to go higher...

I stood out of the elevator and into the reception. It had an opulent atmosphere, with an art-deco styling to it, trying to mimic grand old hotels in the 1920's. Kind of kitsch, really, to have the architecture of the Gatewater Imperial Hotel with a window view of the entire city. How is it that the uber-wealthy can get away with lacking any taste? The receptionist was a young woman in a smoky-grey suit jacket and pencil skirt. Her hair was shoulder-length and wavy, dyed in a strange grey-white colour. No doubt another one of the fashions I'm ignorant of. Though she couldn't have been out of her early twenties, her ensemble had an artificially aged quality to it. Young people want to look old, and older folk want to be young. I guess the beauty industry wouldn't be able to sell new products if anyone was happy with their appearance. Not that I'm bitter, of course.

The receptionist was typing at a pace I'd consider 'frantic' if she wasn't so composed and professional in doing so. She glanced up at me as I approached and began speaking without dropping the pace of her work.

'Mr Wright. I trust you found us without any difficulty? Please take a seat wherever you'd like in the lobby – Mr Coen is out of the office, but should be back shortly.'

She nodded toward a chair, then cast her eyes back toward her work. I sat down, picking up a music magazine to leaf through. The main article caught my eye – it was a review of Cilla Kay-White's new album, coupled with an interview with her on the eve of her upcoming world tour. The album's cover was a picture of Cilla, hands curled into fists and arms pointing upward, her torso submerged in a ball pit. The article used other photos from the same shoot, featuring her slowly rising from the pit into a white void, wearing a swan costume. Symbolic, artsy stuff. I didn't really understand it, but I guess it looked cool. The album was called _LOVERS; CASCADING_ and the review gave it a full five stars, praising its 'bubblegum beats that, when paired with Kay-White's operatic soprano create songs that, once they leave your head, you feel like you've lost a part of yourself.' High praise, but when I thumbed through the magazine to see other reviews, nothing was rated below four stars and the language employed was similarly amplified.

Though the music was celebrated, and pictures of Cilla filled the pages, the interview itself seemed oddly light on content. The piece was written as monolithic prose without script-text denoting speakers, or even speech marks for words that were apparently Cilla's. There was no indication a real conversation happened at all. The article was all bullet points: Cilla spent a long time working on the new songs, worked with great choreographers and crew to design her upcoming arena tour, nothing but praise for everyone. Her image was squeaky-clean – she spoke about her hope that her performances could inspire little girls around the world.

It was a professional article with an opaque finish; nothing the sceptical reader could examine and find any clues that there was something unseemly on the surface. Crime had nothing to do with her image. It was difficult to say what was—there was not a single detail in the interview that suggested a human beneath the surface of glamour and fame.

Was this really my prospective client?

Who _was_ she?

What happened to her?

Defending the innocent was my job, and from looking at Cilla as a pop-culture figure, there didn't seem to be anyone more innocent. Of course, celebrity just isn't enough to go on for presumption of innocence. It's a mark of the profession to have a kind of distanced relationship between defence attorney and client, right? I know it's supposed to be normal, but it's never really been like that for me. To believe in my client's innocence, is, to me, a passionate, fiery leap of faith. I don't believe because it's expected of me, I trust in them because of a real faith that they're innocent. I was lucky to have a mentor that taught me that, and I'm glad to pass down that necessity for faith onto Apollo and Athena, but... It's par for the course that a defence attorney will accept a case where they can't _truly_ know of their client's guilt. Some of them don't even want to know.

I think about the Engarde case often. I revisit that case in my nightmares. It scares me still, not for what happened, but what _could have_. Not every guilty client is quick to confess their crimes to their attorney. Some people deceive so naturally that they lie to themselves – evidence has no bearing on their conviction in their own innocence. Engarde knew he was slime, and taunted me with that, but what if he'd kept quiet? With evidence mounting against him, what if he refused to tell me a word? I still would've had to go to court to plead his innocence, and since I couldn't be certain he was guilty, maybe I would've been more comfortable going along with his scheme. Condemning an innocent for my own benefit, but without even admitting to myself I'd done so. The real struggle for a lawyer isn't to resist corruption, but to do good. It's not a profession for anyone who aspires to the heroic. Real life makes everything so much more complicated.

I heard the elevator open, and Coen's presence filled the room like a poison gas. On TV, he looked gaunt and almost skeletal, but that's only because the image couldn't put across the energy he channelled. You know, I've been wearing suits for a long time, but I've always subconsciously thought I was somehow wearing them _wrong_. The only time I felt completely comfortable with my appearance was after I was disbarred...and I'm not saying I could go back to court wearing a hoodie and beanie, but it gave me a minute comfort. I'd call myself fashion-conscious, but that has of connotation of being _fashion-adept_ , which I'm certainly not. I just think that when it comes to certain positions of authority, the clothes wear the man more so than the man wears the clothes. Coen's stark white suit was sharply tailored to his wiry body. He was an older man, probably in his early sixties, but in a second spring, past any mid-life doubt with ferocious purpose. A man of experience, with a cold, pallid gaze. It was directed at me now.

'Mr. Wright, good to see you! I must apologize profusely for making you wait – this infernal business continuously threatens to outpace me – but glad I am that you are here, for there is much to discuss. Come with me. Excuse Friday's dreadful rudeness. She really should have at least offered you a cup of coffee, but we have so much work to do at the moment. If we're not getting calls from journalists, promoters and distribution companies bay for our blood, regarding the cancelled tour. It was a world tour, so those calls come at all hours. No rest for the wicked or weary. I considered myself blessed to be as ignorant of this country's laws before today. Defence attorneys are to be cherished, Mr Wright, for the service they do in a system so thoroughly stacked against them. The courtroom must resemble an executioner's wheel with how quickly trials are prepared and criminals thrown behind bars. The world is a cruel place, I remind myself of that daily, but how easy is it even for the cynical to be speechless before society's next profane deed!'

Before I knew it, I was sitting before Coen's desk in his office. His voice had some compulsive quality to it. It struck a match against short-term memory. It dislocated. I quivered, involuntary, in my seat, the way I sometimes awake with a jolt from a sudden dream. Coen stood by a coffee press, idly measuring beans, making pleasantries about the weather and the importance of caffeine intake on busy workdays. Where the decor of the reception was grand, Coen's office was minimalist, more in keeping with sleek, modern aesthetics as they tell me in magazines are popular. The walls were a crystalline grey, the space was wide and open, with gigantic clear windows offering a tantalizing skyline spectacle. The office was so tuned towards space it was noticeably colder than the reception outside. Stepping inside Coen's world brought everything into sharp focus. He handed me a cappuccino cup, sitting with his own at his desk. We both sipped – him with enthusiasm and me with trepidation, because I get nervy if I drink too much coffee. The coffee was exotically aromatic with a strong taste profile I can't say any more about, not having any clue about those things. Coen noticed my unfriendly attitude toward my beverage.

'Not a coffee aficionado, are we, Mr. Wright?' he said with a warmly condescending smile. If there was one manner of Coen's I could perceive and analyse in my first impression of him, it was that he was a man of variety, especially if that variety was in a condescending mode. Some people have tics and quirks of speech that conceal their intent rather than illustrate it – I've met gracious, friendly people who never smile – but Coen's emanation of wealth and superiority only underscored his character. The elite – self-styled or no – were like that. They relished the menagerie of veiled offences they could impart on those around them, while remaining detached.

'Not exactly,' I replied with a breath of laughter. 'I knew someone who was, but I've never had his passion.'

'Ah, but you must be passionate about _some_ thing, Mr. Wright. The human condition is not a mechanical one. Everybody that's worth talking to is an expert in something totally unrelated to their profession. Friday, out there in the reception, is working on a translation of St. Augustine's _Confessions_ in her spare time, would you believe that? I've never read it myself – not exactly religious, but I find such joy in listening to the latest piece she's worked on. He was a fascinating fellow. Quite the sinner in his day. He went on to be a major Christian theologian, but in his youth he would pray to God for chastity, only "not yet"! I think about that occasionally; there's truth to it. Coffee aside, what keeps you going, Mr. Wright? What inflames your curiosity?'

'That's... not an easy question to answer, actually. Outside of work, you mean?'

'Naturally. I imagine you are more than your credentials.'

'Well, I have a daughter. If being a defence attorney isn't a full-time job, being a parent sure is.'

'Such a _diplomatic_ answer, Mr. Wright! I don't have children, but I think you know well that's not the answer I was seeking. Not that I don't envy you, in a way. Family, friendship and religion... the three demons one must slay to succeed in business! That's a saying one hears when he spends too much of his life at international conferences. Any good joke has its share of truth in it. Ah, but I'm going off-topic. You cannot indulge me on these things, I am an inveterate rambler. Please, be impolite: demand to know why you've been called here!'

Having taken the words from my mouth, I hesitated. 'I know why you've called me here. You want me to defend Cilla Kay-White. She's going to be charged with murder.'

Coen, who was slouching back in his chair with an artificial informality, stiffened into place like a gleeful, prowling cat. 'Precisely. I'm guessing you're not acquainted with the music we produce here?'

'I'm only distantly familiar with what's on the radio these days, and I try not to turn it on if I can help it.'

'I could tell you weren't in our demographic. The more disinterested you are in relation to Cilla's career, the better. I require a lawyer, not a fanboy. The latter is the issue. How acquainted are you with the case?'

'Only what I saw on the news earlier this morning.'

'There's more where that came from. I've another conference set in the afternoon. I'll give you what information I can, before _they_ get wise. Cilla's been charged with murder. Well, she's _about_ to be charged, but that's procedure, a formality. An unfortunate encounter with a, how shall I put it, _overenthusiastic_ fan. She's awfully shaken up; can't get much sense out of her. The fact remains there's a body that the police are trying to pin a criminal to. The investigators are at work as we speak.'

'How can you schedule another press conference with so little information? You don't even know if she's innocent or guilty?'

'Never mind that. I tell the media enough nothings for them to speculate in any direction. Best say _something_ , have _some_ control over the situation.

Despite your courtroom successes, you've not been one to embrace the spotlight, Mr. Wright. I admire that – you let your skills speak for you. This case will likely subject you to a level of media scrutiny you've been hitherto unfamiliar with. Cilla was beginning a world tour, was selling out stadiums in every major city. She was a star already, but this tour was going to make her a megastar. It won't happen now, of course, but now thousands will wonder about what could have been. This affair serves only to disseminate her reputation. I am telling you this only to help you understand that _it is not your concern_. This case will make you famous, Mr. Wright, and we have the means to let you capitalise on that fame, or unburden you of the attention it brings. I wanted you for this case because, like any good family man, I knew you would not desire to make a celebrity of yourself. Co-operate with me, and you'll be able to do your job with the consummate professionalism you have always possessed, with a much more substantial pay than that which such professionalism, sadly, typically yields.'

'You're an experienced negotiator, Mr. Coen. I respect your offer, but right now I still have too little information on what happened to decide to defend Cilla. It might seem unusual for a defence attorney, but if you've done the research into me like you've said, you'll know I only defend those I believe to be innocent. I'd need to meet Ms. Kay-White herself to do that.'

Coen clasped his hands together, beaming. 'Oh, but you are naive! Of course I'd heard of your idealism before I contacted you.

You may not be a celebrity, but that does not mean you are not _known_ to me. A family man, a protector of his friends, and a charitable soul, oftentimes defending people he's just met by an unwavering conviction in their purity and innocence. You don't need to go to church for me not to recognise the religion in you.

Yet we, who are so different, need not be opposed! If it is faith in Cilla you require, I may not be the best man to instil it in you. The case against her is strong, very strong. The police have no other suspects. I expect only a miracle would let Cilla go free – and that is why I called on you, for you seem so generous in dispensing them on others.

I don't understand for a second why meeting Cilla would give you any understanding of her guilt or innocence. Perhaps it is the cynicism of business in me. Then again, _there's no art in the mind's construction of the face._ Cilla is an enchanting girl; even in the _state_ she's in now, in the detention centre, I'm sure she'll charm you to her be her noble knight.

I've made arrangements with the guards down there: you may visit her as soon as you'd please.'

Our meeting ended with scarcely another word spoken. What could I say to him? Nothing witty or profound, not in the moment anyway. Coen was unpleasant, but I couldn't find much to argue with him about. It _isn't_ normal for defence attorneys to believe in their clients' innocence despite all odds. I was taught that, and I teach that, but the view's not widespread. That's why I don't tend to make any friendships among other defence attorneys.

The prosecutor seems the natural enemy of the defence attorney at the beginning of one's career, but time passes and things no longer seem so black-and-white. I think of the Edgeworth I faced when Mia died, and the man I know today. They have the same name and they look alike, but you'd be hard pressed to get me to admit they're the same person. His dogmatic belief that he always prosecuted the guilty let him stick up for obvious scumbags like Redd White without batting an eyelid. We never talk about those days anymore. He doesn't bring up Engarde around me either.

If I've learnt that the prosecutor glaring at me across the courtroom isn't necessarily my enemy, I've also come to understand my fellow defence attorney isn't necessarily my friend. The way Coen smiled at me when he talked about my naivete reminded me of Kristoph Gavin immediately. But it's best not to think about him. I don't think I could continue harbouring fond feelings for my fellow man if I thought he was the rule and not the exception. My experiences with him don't define any ambivalence I hold towards defence attorneys. He's not the kind of guy Coen was talking about when he thought of a 'normal' defence attorney anyway. He just had the veneer of one.

A normal defence attorney doesn't always defend the innocent. They consider that more of a perk of the job than a requirement. Some of them defend people who plead guilty out of a vague sympathy with a criminal spirit. They plead for lenient sentences and force the prosecution to work hard with their evidence to ensure the legal system runs with an appropriate justice. And some of them defend ambiguous characters for more self-serving reasons. The thrill of debate. The power of invoking doubt, of leaving witnesses to the trial uncertain and troubled by the court's proceedings, regardless of the result. They work to conceal the truth – some of them try to destroy the idea of truth itself. And these people aren't criminals themselves. They're law-abiding, normal people. They can't be decried like Kristoph Gavin can. Morality doesn't coincide with what they do. They aren't heroes and don't claim to be. The kind of people I can't even hate without finding fault with myself. That way of thinking is wrong, isn't it? It comes back to faith. I believe I'm doing the right thing, but if what I do is so different to what other people do, and they think of themselves as basically good, as basically doing the right thing, then I can't exactly pat myself on the back. I know my way around a courtroom, and yet I still wonder if I can call myself a good defence attorney. And if that's an honour I really want.


	3. III - The Eyes of Strangers

Monday, 4th December

12:31

Detention Center

They say the more things change, the more they stay the same. I don't know who said that, but I assume they were talking about the detention center, which hasn't got so much as a new coat of paint since I became a lawyer. I can imagine the causes of its dilapidation without having to ask anyone. Budget cuts. Funny how those two words can impact so much. You'll never see the chief of police with holes in his suit driving a hatchback in conjunction with the threat of 'budget cuts', though. Figuring out where all the money goes – now that'd be the case of a lifetime.

Is cynicism a product of ageing, like back pain and greying hair? If the Phoenix in college could see me now, what might he think? He never worried about money, so I don't think he'd be upset I have so little of it. Maybe he'd be upset that _I'm_ upset I have little of it. It's rarely greed that makes an average person miserly, nor want of luxuries. I have Trucy's welfare in mind. Those years spent in dusty dive-bars playing piano...it wasn't the best environment to raise a child. Well, it wasn't the best environment for _me_ , either. I can look at the past and say it's over, but that doesn't mean it is. The past isn't even past. Especially for Cilla. I thought about that as I waited for the guards to bring her from her cell to the visitors' area.

If you asked me when as a defence attorney do I feel most nervous, the answer might surprise you. It's not in a courtroom. The courtroom has its own energies – it's a public spectacle as well as a hall of justice. No matter what happens, I'm slightly outside of myself, slightly unaware. It's a performance, and I have my part to play. I get pre-trial jitters, though not nearly to the extent new attorneys do, but that isn't true nervousness to me. I'm nervous in the silence between my asking to see my client and my client appearing before me. The environment in which you meet someone inevitably dictates your perceptions of them. A lot of the time this is my first time meeting my clients – and if they're someone I know, like when I defended Edgeworth, seeing them vulnerable, isolated in a prison setting, is like seeing someone you know suddenly horribly aged or disfigured. Parts of them _aren't there_. The air in the room changes when an attorney meets a client. The client suddenly realises this face – my face – is the face of a man who'll try to win their freedom. I might be their last hope. I see my client, I see the face of someone I have to defend, for whom the consequences of failure are life-shattering. There's a lot of uneasy meaning in that first glance between attorney and client. In theory, there's no reason the defence attorney should feel nervous – what are they risking? They have all the power – power over another's life. Well, it's that power that makes me nervous. I want to help people, but the responsibility that being a defence attorney brings is never a comfortable one for me. I can't disconnect my role with who I am, a human being, no greater or lesser than any other human being. It's part of professional courtesy to sidestep the reality of that power imbalance – to be polite, accommodating, but a little distant from the client. When I first look into the eyes of another, I can't hide from them. I wonder if they see something I'm afraid to see in myself.

I tried to keep my pose neutral as my self-consciousness broiled inside my chest. I was so distracted I didn't see Cilla arrive until she sat before me.

'...who are you?'

'Oh! Excuse me, my name is Phoenix Wright. I'm a defence attorney. You are Cilla Kay-White, am I correct? Your record company is hiring me to represent you for your upcoming trial, and I thought it important to meet you before anything else.'

Her eyes searched mine. They were a large greenish-blue, the harsh light of the detention center reflected in them. They matched the girl I saw in the photos, but not much else of her did. Cilla was sickly pale, her long coppery hair curtaining one side of her face. She sat with her legs curled up against her chest, her hands beneath her chin. She'd probably been in the foetal position in her cell the entire time. Were it not for her eyes, you'd think she there was no more innocent creature in dire need of help. They were beautiful eyes, but opaque. They went beyond saying nothing; they concealed. Her strong gaze was incongruous with her body language. Already I felt less at ease than I did with Coen. She watched me for a long time, unblinking. Then she closed her eyes and moved her arms, her head dropping into her chest.

'There's no need for this...' she spoke in such a low voice it seemed private speech I strained to hear sitting in front of her. She raised her head to meet me again, but fixed her gaze firmly at the space above my head.

'I'm Cilla. If you want to ask me questions, I'll answer...what I can.'

'What happened on the night of the... incident?'

She continued to avoid meeting my eyes.

'We were beginning my new tour. Everyone was nervous because we'd been rehearsing for weeks and this was the first arena-sized show I'd done solo, apart from occasional festival appearances. The fans seemed to enjoy it...it wasn't a perfect show but we were still happy to begin. The future was bright. We celebrated afterwards, in the hotel. Then...'

Sometimes the easiest way to prompt someone to continue their testimony is to remain silent. I held the silence.

'He was dead.'

...

'Is that it?'

Another silence. It was around about this time that my Magatama would reveal Cilla's Psyche-Locks. If I needed to interrogate someone about the details of a case, the spirit energy of the Magatama would manifest as locks that protect one's secrets from another. If I could break someone's Psyche-Locks through thorough questioning, I could uncover the truth. There's nothing untoward about it – it's more of a tool for me to guide my questions than it is some manipulative force that controls the minds of others. In less co-operative defendants, it came in useful. And I'm sure it would've come in useful here, had I brought it with me...my pockets suddenly felt emptier than before. Then it struck me. Trucy had asked to borrow the Magatama when she went off with Athena to assist with her case. I thought I'd be spending the coming week doing admin work, so I had no need for it. Beads of sweat were forming on my forehead. That's just what I get for relying on mysticism. My investigation was going to have to proceed to old-fashioned way...

'Your story's too vague, Cilla. Were you the one to find the body?'

She nodded. 'I don't remember _how_ , though. I remember the hotel, then I was in a cell, because of someone I killed...'

'You don't know for sure that you found the body, then? You were told that after you were arrested?'

'Yes, I—No, no, I _remember_ seeing him alive. For a split second, and I remember a loud noise... he was shot, I remember the gunshot, I heard it.'

'Okay, so you remember bits and pieces. The celebration in your hotel – was there alcohol involved?' Her sickly appearance wasn't wholly brought upon by the stress of arrest, it was obvious now. 'I drank too much. Went way beyond my limit. Blacked out.' Cilla forced a sardonic smile. 'I'm absolutely the world's worst defendant, Mr. Wright. I don't even recall the murder I committed.'

'So you think you killed someone?'

Her voice dropped to a croaky murmur. 'Probably. Nobody else was arrested. They told me I had a gun. I remember the sound of gunfire, I remember the guy in front of me. It must've been me.'

'Don't assume that, Cilla. Do you feel you're the kind of person to want to kill anyone?'

She paused. 'Do you want the truth, or am I supposed to reassure you?'

'Always the truth.' Not that I have any method of knowing anymore. Damn it, Phoenix, don't get sour just because you're working a case without a Magatama. Isn't that what most lawyers do?

'The truth is—maybe. I think everyone's capable of killing. If humans couldn't kill, we wouldn't be where we are.' She let her words hang in the air. She'd been brooding about death for a while, anyone could tell.

'That's all well and good from a philosophical perspective, Cilla, but I'm talking about _you_. Why would you kill anyone – why would you kill a stranger?'

Cilla dropped her face into her hands and held them with her eyes peering out through the gaps between her figures. 'I would say "because the sun was in my eyes," but the murder happened in the middle of the night...To be frank, Mr. Wright, I don't think my feelings have much to do with the reality of what happened. I was drunk.'

'Perhaps far too drunk to commit such a crime.'

'It might be your job to believe in my innocence, but I certainly don't have to. The pieces fit. Whether I want them to or not.' Cilla muttered her last remark in a familiar tone. I'd heard it in Maya's voice, when she was accused of killing Mia. I'd heard that tone in the voice of Maggey Byrde. Even in Edgeworth's voice, a long time ago. I don't claim to be a psychologist, but I knew there was more to Cilla than how she presented herself. Did she kill someone? Her insistence that she did only inclined me toward the opposite conclusion.

'I'm not so sure about that. I'll be beginning an investigation promptly, and I'll find out for myself if the evidence the police implied against you works as they say. You don't have to see yourself as a victim in all this, but don't lose hope! If you can't believe in yourself, believe in me.'

'Believe in you, because you believe in me, is that it? You don't know what happened any more than I do. Why consider taking this case if you're not going to just plead guilty on my behalf?'

'I _don't_ believe in you. You think you're guilty, and what little you've told me works to sustain that narrative. If I wanted to think you might not have killed anyone, I _can't_ believe you. I'm withholding judgement until I investigate for myself. Now, tell me—you said they found you with a gun. Do you own one?'

'No, I—I said it must've been Konstantin's.'

'Konstantin?'

'My bodyguard. Konstantin Ivanovic. I have a small security team for the tour, but he's separate from that. He's been with me since before I got a record deal.'

'You had a bodyguard before you became a professional singer?'

'He was a friend then. He's ex-military. Taught me how to shoot.'

'He taught you? So that's why you think it's possible you could've shot someone while inebriated?'

'Yes, we practiced a lot together. He told me I was a natural...I must've taken the gun from him that night. It wouldn't have been as difficult as one might think. He trusted me. He shouldn't have.'

Konstantin Ivanovic...this guy had a lot to answer for. I didn't need to be an expert bodyguard to know it was a bad idea to allow anyone to stumble drunk onto the streets with a weapon of yours. Had the police been questioning this guy? The prosecution must be pursuing some sort of criminal liability suit against him, supposing what Cilla said is correct. Questioning him was now a major priority. The matter of the victim himself, though, still needed clarification. I hadn't even gotten a name yet.

'Okay, let's take a step back for the moment. You didn't know the person you killed at all, right?'

'No, but the police told me he was a fan of mine. A ticket to that night's concert was found in his pocket.'

'Do you remember at all the place where you encountered him?'

'It was an alleyway near the hotel. I must've been throwing up...I was certainly still sick when I woke up in a cell. I don't know why he was there.'

'Seems oddly coincidental for a musician and a fan to meet in a dark alleyway. If you don't know him at all, you must've been taken off-guard seeing him.'

'Yes. And he must've recognised me...Going down this train of thought won't exactly bolster your faith in my innocence, Mr. Wright.'

'Oh? Why's that?'

'A girl like me, drunk and alone, coming across a stranger in an alleyway who knows who she is. A girl with a gun. Doesn't that supply me with a motive? Was I not fearing for my safety?'

I had a premonition of the trial. The prosecution's argument was falling into place before me, and I had nothing.

'...it's plausible.'

'Then you understand why I'm not sobbing my eyes out, begging for a saviour to vouch for my innocence. I must've killed him. If you still want to defend me, just follow Sylvester's orders and this doesn't need to be a bigger deal than it is.'

'You're talking about Sylvester Coen? Why would I take his orders on how I handle this case?'

'He's the one hiring you, isn't he? Everything between me and the outside has to be mediated by him. That's just the way it's been. He's not exactly chasing the whole 'secretly innocent' line with this either.'

'How do you know that?'

'He visited me before you did. He told me about you before you yourself arrived. Probably before _you_ even knew you were coming. That's how he is. I told him what I remembered and, well, he's pragmatic.'

'Did you tell him what _you_ remembered, or what the police told you was the case?'

'I—' Cilla faltered, questioning herself. That was a good sign. I knew how easy it could be for the accused to buy into the atmosphere of suspicion. It's hard to understand unless you're in their shoes, exactly, but it's rare that someone gets accused of murder and doesn't at least _partially_ think the accusation is right and that their individual memories are faulty. People are typically better at deceiving themselves than others. It's not the police's job to reassure a defendant of their innocence, and if the first person to talk to Cilla after the police was Coen, then it's no wonder she feels guilty.

'He seemed to predict what I was saying before I said it. He interrupted me regularly, finishing my sentences. I didn't have a chance to think about it at the time, that's just his way, but you think he spoke to the police before me?'

'If he's the man I met at Babel Records, he certainly did. Talking to him only reinforced a side of the story that isn't totally yours. If he figured you were guilty before you spoke, then anything you said related to that thought cemented that belief. What did he tell you about me?'

'Not a whole lot. There are a few law firms that are associated with the record company already – dealing with distribution and streaming rights, intellectual property, all that stuff. Sylvester said he didn't want to hire any of those lawyers for this. That you had a reputation for defending the innocent (though I'd never heard of you, sorry) and that your name might improve optics for the trial.'

'Optics? What does that mean?'

'I try to stay clear of spin. The method is his business, not mine. Maybe he thinks you can prove me innocent against all the odds. Or maybe having you as my legal counsel will keep the news cycle cautiously optimistic regarding my fate. Keeping them on side'll likely keep him from losing more money.'

'From the tour cancellations? He told me about that. How much money is at stake, regarding that?'

Another grim smile. 'Beats me. $500 million? 600? The money's his business too.'

The casual magnitude of Cilla's figures unsettled me. Even supposing she was exaggerating, I understood that Coen wasn't messing around with his wealth. The money behind Cilla Kay-White was much bigger than the sorry business of a killing in an alleyway. You didn't get to the position he was in by caring about little things like that. I couldn't trust Coen to have Cilla's best interests at heart – not that he'd inspired much trust in me before. A twinge of uncertainty jabbed my chest. Why'd I been hired for this? Was I really so successful a defence attorney to get the support of so much money behind me? That seemed naive. Still, I could only worry about what I could plausibly do. Defend Cilla.

'It's early days in my investigation, so I'll be back later to ask you more questions. Will you be okay with that?'

She gave a short nod of assent, still avoiding my gaze. There wasn't much more I could say to her to reassure her, not until I had some evidence to back myself up. She'd given me an awful lot to think about, though I felt she was leaving out a lot too. Without Psyche-Locks, I only had my instincts. There wasn't much of a point of questioning her further about the night of the crime if she claimed to black out. I had no reason to suspect otherwise. Was she admitting too little of what she remembered? Maybe, but I couldn't force her to say anything. She didn't trust me yet. I can't always rely on what my client says is true to find the truth for myself. 'Everybody lies', the old adage, never stops being true. I needed hard details, fast.

As I stood up to leave, the door behind me opened. A man stepped in. He was tall – nearly a head taller than me – and solidly built, wearing a black suit jacket, grey shirt and black-and-grey striped tie. His black hair was clipped short, and his face was set into a near-permanent dour glare, though he was handsome besides. Cilla flatly declared his arrival.

'Konstantin.' She spoke his name as something abstract, mathematical. The guarded nature I'd begun to unravel was back in force again. He didn't register his name being spoken; instead, he looked at me, offering a hand. I shook it.

'Phoenix Wright, defence attorney.'

'Konstantin Ivanovic.' His baritone had only the barest trace of a Slavic accent.

'Cilla tells me you are her bodyguard? It's very important I speak to you about the night of the incident.'

He shook his head. 'Not now, Wright. I must speak to her. Mr. Coen wants to dine with you this evening. I shall be there. We will talk then.'

He gestured to the door. There was little reason for me to argue. I couldn't effectively question anyone until I'd got to the scene and examined the evidence. I glanced at Cilla as I was leaving. Her eyes were fixated upon Konstantin. Residual warmth buried beneath the weight of new circumstance. A familiar spectacle during prisoner visits. Loved ones gaze anew at one another as strangers.

 _A/N: Hi everybody, hope you're enjoying the story so far - please let me know your thoughts with a review, they really make the writing process more worthwhile. I'm bringing back a certain fan favourite detective in the next chapter, so I'm hoping to balance the story's seriousness with some classic AA humour. Look forward to it!_


	4. IV - Reunion

1:15

Crime Scene — Outside Hotel Solaris

I don't really understand the modern obsession with crime. I hardly ever watch TV anymore, if only because whenever I decide to sit down and relax at the end of a long day, the most popular, frequent genre of programming is some sort of crime show. Police procedurals. Serial killer hunts. Criminologists leaving academia and wading into the field. These shows wouldn't exist if there wasn't a demand for them, but it's not something I get. Why would anyone want to watch gruesome depictions of violence in their free time? It's an idle thought for me, not something I've thought that seriously about, so I've come up with one or two ideas. I have my complaints about my work, but I can't say that it doesn't stimulate my intellect. If I'm not using my head, I'm not doing my job. Not everyone has that benefit in their line of work, so maybe a murder mystery is a chance for them to engage that problem-solving part of their brain. I'd rather do a sudoku puzzle.

Another reason is that, from what little of these crime shows I've seen before becoming thoroughly sick, they provide a kind of order, a symmetry, that is in short supply in daily life. The cops in these shows are attractive (as actors are typically demanded to be), forward-thinking, they engage in witty banter and have a sense of camaraderie amongst one another, they have their specialties of knowledge, and they always get their man. A criminal investigation on TV is nothing like what's in real life. I don't think this is uncommon knowledge; isn't all fiction a contract between artist and audience to believe something on one level, and accept on another its falsity? Yet, through fiction, people can vicariously experience justice. They'll see that the criminal always gets punished. The criminal might have some sort of half-baked sob story to explain their crimes, or they might be thoroughly monstrous human beings, but they won't go free.

Fiction offers a narrative that the media doesn't accommodate for. You don't get headlines like 'Police did their job today, murder suspect confesses'. You get the bad news, or for some, worse still—the kinds of news you can't easily determine as 'good' or 'bad'. News about shoddy investigations, about police corruption, allowing a dubious suspect to go free. Again, I am confronted with the ethics of being a defence attorney, about what it means. From my time in bars or overhearing conversation doing my shopping, I sense certain vibes of public opinion. Not everyone looks on defence attorneys favourably. For some, and this margin is rising, we're an amoral lot. We use loopholes, courtroom trickery and all sorts of disingenuous tactics to let the guilty go free, all in public, as some sort of ghoulish spectacle of cunning.

Courtrooms have standards of evidence that are necessary to convict people, but that doesn't stop the court of public opinion. "The Dark Age of the Law" was a turn of phrase coined in the media before it reached the lips of every lawyer and judge in the country. Coen picked me out as the kind of guy to avoid media attention, but I think that was a dog whistle as to his true meaning. I was the first big name to be associated with "The Dark Age of the Law". The public was outraged. At first I didn't blame them, but...I was shunned. Spit on in the street on more than one occasion. A good day was one where nobody recognised my face. Part of me wondered what the point would be to try to clear my name, to get my badge back, because it was futile. I thought that hate would last forever. In terms of my daily life, the "Dark Age" was actually a net positive. I was quickly forgotten about; there were new controversies to focus on. Now even that phrase has dropped out of public use. Does that mean the internal problems of the legal system have subsided? No. It just isn't news anymore.

Misanthropy is an unattractive quality, and a banal one. I'm not trying to complain about being misunderstood. About how the public are sheep, or some such thing like that. After all, I lost touch with a lot of people in the fallout of being disbarred. A few people didn't want to speak with me, but for the majority, it was a gradual lessening of contact. As much my decision as theirs, if not more so my own fault. I lost my badge in what I thought was the prime of my career, the best years of my life. Being around people that knew Phoenix Wright, the lawyer, as opposed to Phoenix Wright, the pianist and poker-player, became too painful. There was mutual discomfort. In a heartbeat, I changed. People only seem to change suddenly or not at all, and I didn't exactly evolve from cocoon to butterfly. So I don't blame anyone for being isolated. It came from within. I have to take it as the mundane reality of my experience that, as soon as I started stepping onto crime scenes again, I met a lot of old friends. Like this one, for instance.

'You better have everything you need before you go to the lab, pal! Prosecutor Carver wants that ballistic report on his desk tomorrow morning, _before_ the trial!'

'Yes, sir! I... I'm going to recheck all the evidence now, sir!'

It must've been nine years since I last heard that voice, but I couldn't mistake Dick Gumshoe no matter how much time had passed. He had his back turned to me as I approached, giving orders to a police officer who quickly ran off.

'Good to see you again, Detective Gumshoe.'

He turned. 'Yeah, nice to see you too, pal—wait, Phoenix Wright? Is that you?'

'In the flesh. You haven't changed a bit.'

'That's not true! I got a new trench coat. It's blue, see! The same blue as...yours...'

My wardrobe had gotten an update since I'd last seen him (I think my waistcoat looks very nice), but what he said was true. Despite the years that passed since we last saw each other, Gumshoe hadn't aged a day, except of course for his new blue coat. He had the same bushy eyebrows, hapless expression, pencil behind his ear, bandage on his left cheek. Had I not seen a photo of him and Edgeworth once at the start of their careers, I would've found his lack of ageing creepy, but Gumshoe had essentially looked the same since at least his mid-twenties. Puberty must've hit him something fierce.

The smile on Gumshoe's face at our happy reunion fell.

'Y-you're not out to get me just cause I got you disbarred, are you?! Or is it cause I got the same shade of blue for my new coat? I wasn't trying to steal your style, it's just that you weren't around anymore, so...so maybe I was, but so what? It looks good on me, anyways. What are you doing here, anyway, pal?! This is a crime scene, we can't let civilians walk around here, especially not ones with a history of forging evidence!'

'Hold on a minute, Detective Gumshoe! Did _nobody_ tell you I got my badge back?! I was framed by Kristoph Gavin! I worked with a young attorney, Apollo Justice, to reveal him for the criminal he was and to become a defence attorney again!'

'Huh—What? Wait, wait...oh yeah, Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth did tell me that a couple years back, now that I think about it. Sorry, pal. I forgot.'

Despite the preposterous ignorance Gumshoe just displayed, I had to take him at his word. He likely _did_ forget. His puppyish eyes looked guiltily at me now.

'I—uh...should've done a better job at keeping in touch, pal. I was as shocked as anyone at the fallout of that trial. I didn't want to believe you did what you did, but...I guess I just tried to hide from it. Got assigned to some cases in a city over to avoid having to think about it. I was a lousy friend, pal.'

'Don't worry about it; I was as much at fault as anyone. Lost contact with a lot of people. Even when I got my badge back, I felt too awkward to reach out. Just threw myself into work, same as you. I was a bad pal too, friend. I mean, uh, just, a bad friend.'

Gumshoe's familiar smirk lit up his face.

'Oh boy, do we have a lot of catching up to do! It's been years, but the days we used to catch criminals together, it's like they happened yesterday, pal!'

'It sure is...' I don't remember him being very helpful, most of the time.

'I tell you something, when I get off my shift, we need to go get a few beers, kick back, tell our life stories, the whole deal, pal! Let's do it, my treat!'

'That's generous of you, but—'

'I have so many great stories! You wanna know how I bought this coat?'

'Not...really, but—'

'You remember how Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth used to always threaten to cut my salary? Those were the days, pal! We had a lot of laughs. I don't remember laughing much, myself...for a long time I didn't have enough money to heat my apartment or eat anything except instant noodles! It was rough, I tell ya! I found an old length of rope by the side of a road during one of my shifts, and I thought to myself, "You know, pal, maybe life just ain't worth living for guys like us, maybe it's just not our thing!"

So I took the rope and drove home, and was all prepared to check out the next life, if there is one (and there probably isn't!) but wouldn't you know it, I forgot I sold my only chair to make rent, and there was no place high enough to hang myself from! What a riot, am I right, pal?'

I nervously exhaled a chuckle or too, if only from politeness. Poor Gumshoe.

'The rope probably would've broke anyway, I told myself. No big deal. So I was talking with a buddy of mine one evening and I brought up how Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth was threatening to lower my salary again, at which point I'd be owing _him_ money, and my buddy works in a trade union, okay, and—get this—he told me that was illegal! I've been working as a detective for years now and nobody ever told me that before! So I did a little digging and it turns out there are these labour laws and, whaddya know, my buddy's right, pal!

I talked to Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth and it turns out he was withholding what he took from all my salaries the entire time, until I caught on to the joke! That's what he said anyway. We had a good laugh, though I'll admit, at first I thought I was gonna strangle him! Anyways, I can finally afford heating and decent food and clothes, so I bought myself a new coat. Pretty nice, huh, pal?'

Forever I will regard Gumshoe as an aberration of human evolution.

'Yeah, it sure is!' I channelled all the enthusiasm I had for Gumshoe's saga being over into my response.

'A-anyway, why don't we reminisce later and talk about the investigation right now, Detective.'

'Oh, you're on this case? You're Cilla Kay-White's defence attorney? Why'd she hire you?'

Bit rude, that. 'She didn't, I was hired by her record label.'

'So the suits are behind this, huh? Bet somebody's gonna get fired for that, pal! You're a goner in this trial!'

Very rude, that. 'Mr. Coen seemed confident in his decision to hire me when we spoke. I wouldn't underestimate me if I were you, Detective Gumshoe.'

'It's not underestimatin' if I just _know_ you're gonna be hopeless out there. You haven't taken a case in nine years, and they give you one as big as this?'

'I... got my badge back two years ago, Detective. Since then I've taken quite a number of cases. I solved the UR-1 incident. That was kind of a big deal.'

'Sure, sure pal. You can count on your faithful old pal Dick Gumshoe if you need any help getting used to investigating again. I'm getting to be quite a pro at this detectiving thing, you know! All the other officers say they need to work twice as hard when I'm around!'

Arguing with him is like arguing with gravity. I suppose I should take Gumshoe's condescending magnanimity while I can.

I began to inspect the scene. Hotel Solaris hadn't closed fully, apparently having only closed areas believed to be relevant to the investigation. The alleyway – the crime scene – wasn't exactly a point of interest to tourists anyway. Though maybe it would be now. It was a tight little nook – there was space to squeeze past a dumpster, but nothing else. It was impossible for two people to walk down opposite sides of the alleyway and not encounter one another. A chalk outline of a body was drawn in a few metres in, so the crime took place at the exit of the alleyway, where it entered out onto the street by Hotel Solaris, as opposed to deeper in. The outline was stained in a coat of blood. My stomach jumped a little at the sight of it. It never gets easy to see.

'You look lost, Wright. Why dontcha ask old Gumshoe about the case the police is building? You know, the one that's definitely gonna eviscerate you in court!'

'Since you offered, Detective Gumshoe. Do you have any form of autopsy report I can take a copy of?'

'Hey hey, I never said I could go around _handing_ you evidence.' As Gumshoe spoke, he rapidly looked around the area to see if anyone could see us, before he took a laminated paper from inside his trench coat pocked and handed it to me. I tried to discreetly put it into my court record so that I could keep up Gumshoe's spy playacting.

'The victim's name is Virgil Chadwick. He was twenty-four, an out-of-towner here for the concert. Traces of alcohol were found in his system – it thinned his blood. When he was shot he bled out quickly and viciously. Three times, right in the stomach. Despite that, the autopsy estimates it could've taken him up to half an hour to die.'

'He was shot three times? In succession?' This was new information. I could interpret a scenario where an inebriated Cilla shot someone out of panic, but firing three shots as opposed to one is quite a different affair. Could her memory really have blacked out on firing a gun three times?

'According to the coroner, he was shot once, and after a short delay, two more shots were fired. He didn't fall after the first shot – the second and third shots both hit the same part of the abdomen, and from how they lined up, the victim still had to be standing to get hit like that. The first shot went through the victim, but the other two bullets lodged in his stomach. I think the lab's still doing tests on those.'

'Right.' I started taking notes. When it was impossible for me to gain an exact copy of the evidence, as with the bullet of a gun, it was vital my notes on the evidence were as detailed as they needed to be without any mistakes or oversights.

'We ID'd the first bullet to the gun the suspect had when she was apprehended, and we expect the other bullets will match too. I don't know how you're gonna wrangle your way out of this one, pal!'

'I'll find a way,' I responded, trying to keep a cheerful tone. A lawyer's got to keep smiling, even when they have reason to do otherwise.

'Has there been any footprint testing done in the area?'

'It rained during the night, and alleyways like these have gutters that fill up with water fast. Any footprints would've been washed away.'

'Okay...' I tried hard to examine the scene for any other possibilities. It was hardly a closed circle – a dark alleyway might not be an inviting place to walk through, but that didn't mean it was impossible for someone else to be at the scene. We were right outside a hotel. Any guest could pause for a moment out here to smoke. The scene itself wasn't the problem. As for the bullets, well—I had to wait until court to know for sure what'd happened with those. Was there anything else I could possibly check?

'Detective Gumshoe, is there anything else suspicious you found while investigating the scene?'

'Huh? You're asking me? Sorry pal, but isn't it usually _you_ who comes to court with all these fancy objections as to how we investigate a crime scene?'

An expression midway between confusion and smugness fixed itself on Gumshoe's face. Worse still, he was right. The crime scene seemed impeccable in how it favoured the prosecution so far. I needed to work the case from a new angle.

'Was Cilla arrested at the scene? What time was she arrested at?'

'Ms. Kay-White was found passed out just outside the hotel at around 2:40AM. She was brought to a private room behind the hotel's reception while staff took care of her. The police arrived at 3AM, with an ambulance in tow. She was taken in a supervised ambulance to a holding cell, where she was supervised until this morning.'

'Why all the business with the ambulance? What was wrong with her?'

'You didn't hear about it already?' Gumshoe's face grew stern. It was...an unusual look. 'I don't like to talk about a lady like this, especially not someone like Cilla Kay-White, but...she was sick. Sick in a "stick her in a drunk-tank until she pukes her guts out" sort of way. Real sick. By all accounts, it was messy. If she hadn't gone and killed someone, news about the state she was in would've hit big anyways.'

'I'd prefer if you didn't go saying things like _that,_ Detective Gumshoe. I wasn't sure what to think at first, but I don't think things are as simple as they seem.'

Gumshoe scratched the back of his head.

'They never are, huh? Even when I think things are complicated enough, they're still simpler than whatever's really going on...'

All of a sudden he looked tired. I didn't have Apollo's skill in examining body language, or Athena's Mood Matrix, but I could tell there was something off about his demeanour. I needed to press him more.

'Is everything alright, Detective? You seem a little emotional...and not just because of our reunion.'

Gumshoe flinched, standing to attention like a private in the army caught picking his nose.

'H-huh? No way, pal! I'm a professional; I arrest criminals if the evidence points to their guilt, no matter who they are. E-even if it's...someone like her...' He trailed off, deflating like a stuck tyre.

'Were you a fan of Cilla Kay-White, Detective?'

' _Was_ I? I still am! At least, I think I am... artists can do bad things and you can still appreciate their work, right? Even if they're killers, you can still listen to a song like _Hey Moon_ or _You Won't Be Missing That Part of Me_ or _Dancing Shoes_ and think 'this person understands me like nobody else in my life does, and they don't even know me!' You can still feel that, right?! You can still share a connection that music offers, like nothing else?!'

Gumshoe was passionate now, eyes wide, breathing heavy, shouting close to the top of his lungs. Clearly, I struck a nerve.

'I think that's a complicated topic, Detective. It really depends on what the artist did, and how that reflects on how you engage with their art. In Cilla's case, I don't think you have anything to worry about. I really think that, despite how things look, she's not a killer.'

'Aw pal, you know I want to believe that, but how can I? The facts don't match up! And they told me when I was training to be a detective that facts are more important than opinions! Sometimes I don't get it...this time I really don't get it, but I just can't believe she didn't do it! It's...it's a betrayal, as soon as I heard the news this morning I was betrayed! And what am I gonna tell my little niece? I brought her to that concert yesterday, and when I go home tonight I have to call her up and tell her Cilla's a criminal? Why'd it have to be this way?! It's like we're all animals, every one of us!'

Gumshoe's head slumped into his chest, which he pounded in melodramatic outrage with his fist. I wanted to feel sympathy for him, but his outcry was so sudden I didn't know how to react. What was up with Gumshoe's emotional state that he could cheerfully recount tales of his own despair, then fall into despair anew at the thought of a popstar committing a crime? It wasn't like he knew her, right?

'Detective, please. Pull yourself together! I'm trying to help Cilla, and I need you to stay strong...for her!'

He groaned and wailed, but eventually piped down, though his face still bore the tell-tale indicator of his demoralisation.

'You said you went to the concert yesterday with your niece? Could you describe what it was like for me?'

'Oh, you wanna know if there were any signs she would do anything? There wasn't...which makes everything else so much worse...' He stifled a cry.

'Still, Detective, your recollection of the concert could be helpful. The victim was a fan of hers who attended the concert, too, right? It has to be important somehow.'

'Okay...' Gumshoe looked off into the distance. Wistful, nostalgic. Recalling a better time.

'When I look back, the night was so wonderful. I thought I had witnessed a star being born...

It was a slick, professional production, you know. She had a huge stage with a kind of 3D green-screen background that showed all these scenes from nature and a windswept sea that went with different songs. She must've had at least twenty background dancers, and she had this girl-group from her record label as the opening act that came back later to do a song with her, where this big moon came down on a crane and all the stadium lights went dim, and everybody was lighting up the arena with the lights from their phones...except me, cause even once I got the money to afford one of those, I knew I'd only break it...

...and then, after all the showy stuff, for an encore, Cilla came out on to the stage alone, sat on a stool with an acoustic guitar, and played a new song that sounded completely different to everything else. _Nobody Has to Stay_...' He began tunelessly humming what I assumed was the melody of the song, though so artlessly I couldn't be sure. Recounting a fond memory had soothed Gumshoe somewhat. I made a note to myself to consider a career in psychotherapy if things went south.

'It sounds like you had a wonderful time, Detective.'

'It really was something, pal. A moment that would make music history, and nobody's talking about it. Just what happened afterwards...' Gumshoe turned to face me again.

'Did you...talk to her, at the detention center?'

'Briefly. She doesn't remember much about the crime, or so she says. She's hiding things, though I'm not sure what. Maybe everything. She doesn't _know_ if she killed Chadwick, but she doesn't have any faith in herself. Not enough to think herself innocent.'

'That's real rough... I think you should go back and talk to her again, though. If you get time. People don't get as drunk as she did if they're happy, and her concert made thousands of people happy that night. What happened afterwards doesn't add up, you know? You need to ask her about it.'

'...You know something, Detective Gumshoe? You're right. I don't know much about pop music—or any kind of music, really—but if I have a famous musician as a client, I need a learn a thing or two about what they do if I want to earn their trust.'

He looked shocked at what I had to say. 'I'm right? Right! I am right! Maybe ol' Gumshoe can help you see this through! I'm going to tell my niece tonight that Cilla's defence attorney is on the case, thanks to me!' He swelled up with pride. Every emotion under the sun, that guy. I don't know how he gets through the day.

'Hold on—I still have one or two questions before I move on. You said the police arrested Cilla inside the hotel, right? Who called them? Did she say something to the staff?'

'Hmm...' Gumshoe began scratching his head, lost in thought again. 'I wasn't there, so I'm only going by what the first responders told me. They got an anonymous tip-off about a body in an alleyway. Cilla was definitely slurring something-or-another to the staff, but you'd have to talk to them about it.'

'An anonymous tip-off? You said she was found outside the hotel at 2:40, and the police arrived at 3AM. For them to arrive so quickly, they must've been informed about Chadwick's murder pretty soon after it happened...'

I thumbed through my copy of Chadwick's autopsy report. _The victim died sometime between 2 and 3AM... According to his wounds, it may have taken up to half an hour for him to die._

'Detective, surely the police have noted how suspicious it is for an anonymous tip-off to inform them about a murder when, according to the autopsy and testimony regarding Cilla, this tipster almost certainly _witnessed the crime as it happened_?'

'W-whaaat? We've only been compiling the evidence... nobody's come to any conclusions like that!'

'There must be some way for the authorities to locate an anonymous tipster. Records of the call, ways to trace the number, things like that?'

'I-I'm not certain about the protocols...but I better go report this to Prosecutor Carver right away! He'll know what to do!'

'Wait—before you go, can you tell me who Prosecutor Carver is? I'm guessing he's who I'm up against in court.'

Gumshoe nodded.

'Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth's been looking everywhere to recruit prosecutors ever since all those scandals started popping up... He got guys like Simon Blackquill back on the bench, worked with officials in Khura'in to hire Nahyuta Sahdmadhi, and recently he managed to persuade Prosecutor Carver into bringing the office back into repute!'

'What kind of guy is he?'

'He's...uh—' Gumshoe's eyebrows scrunched up. 'He's really nice...I think? When we first met, he shook my hand, introduced himself as George Avery Carver, and then... Honestly, pal, he's kind of an intellectual—I don't know what he's talking about half the time...but he's a really hard-working prosecutor! This is his first case in 40 years!'

'40 years? How old is he?!'

'Gee, uh...I want to know myself, but I figure it's rude to ask. He said something to me about being an old schoolfriend of the Judge, so...'

Wow. This Prosecutor Carver must be somewhere between 70 and 200 years old.

'Why has it been so long since he last took a case?'

'Oh, he became a big-time legal scholar. His office is _full_ of huge, intimidating books, reaching up to the ceiling, and I think he wrote most of them! He came out of his retirement to take some cases to help out Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth.'

A legal scholar...wait. George Avery Carver? G.A. Carver? The guy who seems to have written every important legal text I haven't got around to reading in the last century?

Gumshoe took no notice of my growing unease. 'He's a smart guy, but he's a little frail to be out on the field investigating with us all day, so we have to send him updates regularly. I gotta go tell him about this tipster thing right now, pal. Good luck! Remember to talk to Cilla!'

He began jogging off into the distance before he'd finished speaking, his last words hanging in the air.

G.A. Carver. I wasn't sure what to think. That I was going up against a prosecutor that hadn't taken a case in 40 years seemed like a plus – surely I had the edge in experience, in controlling the pace of the trial. But Carver had a well-earned reputation, one that loomed threateningly over me since law school. Maybe I'd feel less anxious if I actually _read_ one of his books, but it was too late now. All I could hope was that all that knowledge wouldn't translate outside of the classroom.

Besides him, the case wasn't looking as hopeless as I'd first feared. This business with the anonymous tipster needed following up on. I needed to get testimony in writing from a staff member of the Hotel Solaris to figure out what happened to Cilla. I needed to talk to Cilla herself about the concert, about the circumstances that lead up to her blackout. And another meeting with Coen and Konstantin Ivanovic, to cap off the day...Really, things were just getting started. It was all about to get a lot more complicated before anything simpler would coalesce.

I took one last look at the crime scene. One last look at what remained of Virgil Chadwick. A chalk outline in the shape of a man's body. The thought struck me that somewhere else in the world, another defence attorney might well be looking at another chalk outline like this one, at a crime scene, anonymous, like this one. I wondered what that defence attorney must be thinking. Were they confident in their case? Did they trust in their client's innocence? Were they thinking of arguments to use in court? Or, maybe, were they looking at the body in chalk and wondering if we'd all end up like that someday.

The wind changed – a bitter cold blew against me and made me shiver. Now wasn't the time to be thinking about that. I headed inside the hotel.


	5. V - The Night Manager

1:53

Hotel Solaris – Lobby

The hotel lobby had all the noxious extravagance of an 18th-century European ballroom. I'm not trying to be grumpy about places I can't afford to stay at, but I had to wonder _why_ exactly wealthy people wanted to immerse themselves in such ugly luxury. You'd think the idle rich would find the time to develop a half-decent sense of aesthetics. What'd Sylvester Coen make of a place like this? One had to think he had influence in Cilla staying at this particular hotel, but it didn't exactly go with the picture he tried to frame of himself from his own office. There wasn't much point in trying to discern _his_ rationale. I'd be meeting with him in just a few hours anyway. Somehow I expect that he'll be wanting more information from me than I from him. Better keep my court record neat and tidy.

I sidled up to the reception desk. There were two receptionists, a man and woman smartly-dressed in dark-green uniforms, working at a computer and on the phone. I told them who I was and asked to speak to the night manager. One of the receptionists pressed a button, and the ding of an elevator signalled the night manager's arrival. It was...difficult to describe the sight. He was a short man with a ruddy face, his large stature lending him a jovial sensibility, something that was only enhanced by his _remarkable_ facial hair. He had huge tawny sideburns in the manner of a retired general, the kind that jutted out from the face as though, at any moment, they could become miniature wings and give their owner the ability to hover in mid-air. He certainly looked like a hotel manager...150 years ago.

'Mr. Wright, Mr. Wright, Mis-terrr Wrrrright! So GOOD to meet you! I have heard so MUCH about your good work. ALLOW ME to introduce myself. Iain des Crete, night manager of the Hotel Solaris.' He offered me a hand. I shook it, slightly shellshocked from his grand entrance. His hand seemed dainty and weak, but then with sudden force he pulled me towards him, and with his other hand raised a phone before my startled eyes.

'Just a QUICK PHOTOGRAPH to commemorate your arrrrival! I am in charge of the social medias in this establishment, you see. I am sure it will bring fans of our erstwhile guest Ms. Kay-White SOME JOY to see her defence attorney STALWART AND ON THE CASE.'

My ears... With what little grace I could muster I disentangled myself from Mr. des Crete's grip, resolving to keep myself at a distance from him where I could not be stuck by his voice again. It was a promise I couldn't keep.

'Excuse me, Mr. des Crete, but is it really appropriate to put a photo of me onto the hotel's social media pages? The investigation should remain somewhat private, should it not?'

'Oh, I underrrrstand, Mr. Wright. Try to be less BASHFUL! 'Tis naught but A BOON that I am making this photo of you public. You are giving so many hope! It is a thing to be admired.'

He furiously tapped at his phone's screen as he spoke, though not without breaking eye contact with me. I had to recognise the skill of that. Once the photo, which I didn't get to see, was appropriately circulated, he slipped it into a breast pocket, clasped his hands together and yelled:

'An ESTEEMED GUEST is here today, and I REQUIRE A FEAST in his honour, yes, A FEAST I SAY!'

Once the lobby had stopped shaking, the ambient noise of the workers and guests began unabated. des Crete chuckled, embarrassed, to himself. His voice then dropped to a whisper.

'Of course, since I am the night manager, and 'tis still day, they take no notice of me...no, none...Yet I shall not remain night manager forever, no... Then things will be different...'

He looked up at me, suspending his reverie. 'Follow me, Mr. Wright, and I'll get you some refreshment while we discuss your case.'

des Crete took me to a shabby closet-room apparently repurposed as the office of the night manager. He took a seat at his desk while I sat across from him, sipping a glass of lemon water. I had the feeling this wasn't the treatment one would typically receive as a guest of Hotel Solaris, but it was a very refreshing beverage. I can't say des Crete didn't hold his end of the bargain. Seeing him as I did now, it was easy to see that he wasn't used to having people in his office. His desk was stacked with piles of miscellaneous files that he had to commandeer around the available space so that we could see each other. He wasn't embarrassed by his environs, but he wasn't sure how to impose his natural authority over the space. He was too restless to steeple his fingers, resorting instead to quickly tapping his fingertips off one another, searching for a typewriter that wasn't there. For a second he would smile, then his face would freeze – aware of an inappropriate gesture – and he would fix himself into solemnity, not unlike a stroke victim.

The silence in the room as des Crete figured out what he wanted his face to look like was one particularly unenviable to inhabit, so I spoke up.

'Am I correct in thinking you encountered Ms. Kay-White last night, Mr. des Crete?'

He opened his mouth, but no sound arrived. Then, a spluttering, coughing noise. 'Y-y-yes. Yes I did, Misterrr Wrrright.' More coughing. 'On my honour as the night manager 'twas one of the hardest nights of my life. A trrrrying time. Very upsetting.'

He grabbed his face by the sideburns and pulled it into a grotesque frown, as though his facial hair contain muscles of its own. Being in des Crete's presence was making me feel queasy. At least he'd stopped shouting, since we were no longer in a semi-public space.

'Could you describe to me the night of the incident? Perhaps you could start from when Ms. Kay-White and her party arrived at the hotel.'

'Yes, I will trrry. You see, Ms. Kay-White herself did not arrive with her entourrrrrage when checking into the hotel. I believe that was in the early afternoon, when she was rehearsing for the night's concert. I did not meet her until afterwards. She arrived at about 11:30.'

Concerts in the city had a policy of ending before 11 o'clock, so as not to disturb nearby residents. This timing seemed to match up with that.

'There must've been seven others with her when she arrrrived. A tall man, intimidating, professional. I was told that was her bodyguarrrrd. Five young women, wearing colour-coded dresses – her opening act, the girl-group _Carnelian_. And the man himself, Sylvester Coen.'

Coen was with her that night? It wasn't strange in and of itself, but it was too casual an omission not to tell me that when I'd met with him.

'We offered them full use of our ballroom entertainment suite for an afterparty, but Ms. Kay-White said that she was very tired after the concert, and usage of our establishment would not be necessary. She retired to her room, while I believe Mr. Coen and the ladies from Carnelian took use of the bar, which was reserved that night for those involved with Babel Records.'

'Wait—you're saying there was no afterparty? Ms. Kay-White went to her room and then someone just found her unconscious outside the hotel?'

des Crete offered a nervous smile. (That's how I interpret his intention in baring his teeth at me like a distressed chimpanzee.) His hands were now preoccupied with pawing at the buttons of his suit jacket. 'As-as far as I am aware, Mr. Wright...some hours passed, you know...I am a busy man.'

'When was she found?'

'2:40 AM. Things were just beginning to quiet down at that point, when one of the bellboys went outside to take out some trash, and found her there. He informed me immediately, and I with some members of staff carefully carried her into our staff room. She was very ill. I and two others deigned to stay with her at all times, because she was quite hard to handle. She would pass in and out of consciousness, and would speak to us, though she had no idea of who we were...'

des Crete's already ruddy face reddened further with embarrassment on Cilla's behalf.

'What was she saying?'

'I couldn't make much sense of it...much of it was muttered too, well, drunkenly to be coherent. Yet I clearly remember her repeating "She'll never forgive me," almost as a mantra. That, and she kept apologizing. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." At first, I thought she was apologizing for her present state, but I don't think that was it. She was certainly still too inebriated to be aware of herself when the police arrive. What a shock that was!'

'You hadn't called them?'

'Absolutely not—there was no cause! Ms. Kay-White has not been Hotel Solaris' first celebrity guest, and certainly not our first guest to get into a bit of trrrrrouble. We pride ourselves in going above and beyond in care for our guests. The matter was to be kept strrrrrrrictly internal. Besides, at that point we thought a drunken escapade was the worst of the situation. We had no idea anyone had been murdered until the police themselves told us.'

'I see...'

'There was little we could do but co-operate. At that point, Mr. Coen had arrived from the bar. We'd managed to bring in Ms. Kay-White from the cold without his notice, but as soon as law enforcement arrived he demanded to know what was going on. He was furious. Interrogated me about the ordeal with more ferocity than the police did. Then he stormed off, without a word. I'd expected him to follow Ms. Kay-White as she was taken away in an ambulance, but he did not. I didn't see him again for the rest of the night.'

A picture of last night was coming together, albeit a blurred one – a picture that got stranger the more you looked at it. I needed answers from the major players, and quickly.

'Thanks for your assistance, Mr. des Crete. This'll really help my investigation.'

'I do hope so, Mr. Wright. I worry everrrr so much about what damage this murder could do to our hotel. I'll be sure to write a blog post later on how our hotel is working to find the truth here.'

I don't know if that's really necessary, but...

des Crete was already typing frantically on his phone. If I wanted to ask him any more questions, it would be difficult to break him from his trance. I decided to leave him in his office. I felt a little shiver through my spine as I exited the hotel onto the city streets. I wonder what Trucy is doing right now? I gave her a call.

'Hello?'

'Hi Trucy, it's me.'

'Dad? How are you? I heard you've got a trial tomorrow!'

'W-what? I mean, I do, but where'd you hear that?'

'It's all over TV. Cilla Kay-White, huh? I'm not a fan of her stuff, I prefer heavy rock music like the Gavinners.'

'Since when are the Gavinners "heavy rock"?'

'You're just saying that because you don't like Klavier.'

'I have no problems with _him_ , it's just his music.'

'Sure, whatever you say. Why'd you call all of a sudden? Are you lonely?'

'I know you're joking, but I don't know how to answer that! I was enjoying a bit of peace and quiet, before I got caught up in this case. It feels strange working alone, without you, Apollo or Athena with me.'

'I bet. Athena and I are having a great time! For a murder case, I mean.'

'Oh, really? Tell me about it.' Phoenix Wright: the man who, when he is isn't busy investigating a murder, spends time with his daughter to hear about how she's investigating a murder. Apart from all the crazy things that've happened to me, I swear I'm normal...

'Remember how our mystery victim was found dead on the beach? We think we have a witness as to how he died. There's a lighthouse in the area, and people say the lighthouse keeper would've seen everything—problem is, he's a total recluse. Nobody ever goes into the lighthouse, and nobody ever comes out. We're still trying to figure out how to get in and meet the lighthouse keeper. The plan right now is to use a ladder and climb in from the top.'

'That seems like a risky plan...wouldn't a stepladder be more appropriate?'

'What? Dad, no. A stepladder? That'd be crazy. We were thinking one of those long rope ladders. They don't make stepladders that big.'

'That's true, you're right. There's a difference between a ladder and a stepladder. I've taught you well.'

'...Do we always have to talk about that? I think I've graduated from that class.'

'Right. Sorry.' Maybe I've taught Trucy _too_ well.

'Anyways, how's your case going? I was surprised to hear about you in the news. Why'd you take it?'

I hesitated. There were various reasons why I took the case, but none of them were satisfactory as an answer. Was it really right of me to say 'for the money'? That wasn't my sole reason, but it was an influence. The money troubles of the Wright Anything Agency wasn't something I wanted to discuss with my daughter, especially considering she was acutely aware of her part in keeping us solvent.

'I'm... not totally sure. I thought Cilla might be innocent. That was enough.'

'Were you worried about us going broke and living on the streets? _Again?_ '

How is it that, even over a phone line, Trucy can still see right through me?

'It... may have been on my mind.'

'It shouldn't be. By the time this case is done, I'm going to have the plans for the greatest magic show the world has ever seen! I think it'll involve lighthouses, so I'll have to tour coastal areas... hm...'

'You'll have to tell me all about it once you get back.'

'Of course! So, how's your investigation going?'

'The trial looks about as hopeless as they always do. So it's been going quite well.'

'Which prosecutor are you going up against? Athena's curious.'

'One I've never met before. G.A. Carver. He's a legal academic who decided to return to the bench.'

There was a brief silence, and then Athena's voice began yelling in my ears.

'G.A. Carver?! He's one of the most distinguished legal academics in the world! He wrote textbooks I used when studying in Europe! In multiple languages!'

'Hello to you too, Athena...so you know this Carver?'

'I do! And I don't, I guess... his writing is very professional. He's not the kind of scholar to put weird jokes into his examinations of cases, unlike a certain Lord Denning...His prose never makes anything more complicated than it has to be, but I wouldn't say it's _accessible_ either. He's smart, knows he's smart, and doesn't make any excuses for it. I never met him, but his reputation as an educator is renowned.'

'Do you know anything about him from his days as a prosecutor?'

'No, nothing. He doesn't reference himself in his writing. I had no idea he was ever an active prosecutor.'

'This is his first case in 40 years, apparently.'

'In that case, you should have no problem, Mr. Wright! You're the courtroom king here!'

'I guess you're right, Athena...' Still, I'm not really sure. Why would someone so acclaimed in his field turn to active prosecuting, out of nowhere? Was a request from Edgeworth really all the push he needed? I tried not to ponder over it. I'd be meeting Carver tomorrow in court. If I spent too long building up an image of the guy, I'd only get nervous. I'm the experienced one going into this trial, not him.

Trucy came back on the phone, and we said our goodbyes. I had a scenario of the murder, an idea of how the prosecution would proceed. If I could get one thing before the trial began, I wanted Cilla's trust. If she didn't kill Chadwick, it's almost certain someone she knows did. It's not going to be easy, but she has to accept that my focus in this trial is to defend her, and not Coen or Ivanovic or anyone else from Babel Records. If she could see herself as innocent, maybe we were halfway there.

 _A/N:_ _There's been a lot of build-up, but I plan for the next chapter to be the last before the trial begins, even if it's longer than all the previous chapters combined. Please keep reading / reviewing, letting me know what you think! I'd be interested in knowing if you're picking up on the pun names I've been putting in - some are a little more obvious than others, but I found quite a bit of fun playing the games spotting the puns._


	6. VI - Nobody Has To Stay

_A/N: Cilla's song can be found on Youtube with this link: __watch?v=yWV3zviEzOE_

3:00

Detention Center

I don't know when it started, but lately, I've become uneasy upon seeing my reflection. I'm not talking about seeing myself in the mirror when brushing my teeth or combing my hair, (do you think it looks like that on its own? Well, it does, but I still take care of it.) but when I chance upon myself in movement. In the grip of the everyday. My half-visible face in a translucent store window, or against the window of the cabs I use to get around. I try to avoid lingering on the sight. It feels unnatural, and I don't know why. It's not like I'm a vampire and being mirrored in anything is somehow anathema to my very nature.

I'm reminded of the story of Narcissus. An old fable, primordial, as though it were of my DNA. I don't remember where I first heard it, but I know it well. Narcissus was a child beholden to a cryptic prophecy. It was foretold that he would live a long life, as long as he "never knows himself". What did that mean? Narcissus grew up to be a handsome young man. He broke many hearts. One spurned lover cursed him – cursed Narcissus to feel the same pain. If he ever fell in love, the object of his intentions wouldn't love him back. Then one fateful day, he looked into a pool of water, saw his reflection, and became obsessed. His reflection became his whole life – he did nothing but gaze into it until he grew old, lost his beauty. Withered away into nothing.

The prophecy became reality no matter how you look at it. Narcissus lived a long life – a life long in years – though an insignificant one, because he failed to understand that his reflection was just that, a pale shade of himself. He didn't realise his beloved was himself, regarding it constantly but uncomprehendingly. He never knew himself.

Alternately, Narcissus knew himself too well; he became enamoured with his reflection because he prized himself beyond the world. He always put himself first, to the extent that he did nothing else. Was that a long life? Was that _living_ at all?

In many avenues, success depends on a single-minded focus. A determination that sacrifices many things to achieve a goal. Being a lawyer is something that is central to one's essence. It's never been just a job for me, a way to keep a roof over my head while I pursue my true passion. To help people as I have, I needed to prioritise certain things and forget about others. Every case has to be worked at with everything I've got.

It's so easy to lose track of time. Wasn't it only yesterday I was sweating in my suit, defending Larry in my first trial? That was over a decade ago. So, if that didn't happen yesterday, what _did_? Why can't I remember that? The unease that creeps into me when I see my unwelcome reflection culminates in this anxiety. Life is short, and even a long life can come and go in the blink of an eye if one doesn't pay attention to it. The first time I spend any significant time alone in the office and I find myself on another murder case. The money wasn't incentive enough. I'm a shark, in constant movement to stave off the approach of death. I'm more comfortable doing this than I am with anything else.

Without my badge, I lose so much of myself. It shouldn't be like that. No matter how this case goes, I need to consider my future, while I still have one to consider.

When I arrived at the Detention Center, the stoic, impersonal policeman on watch was humming a tune to himself. Considering how rarely I heard him make any sound at all, I knew this to be a major emotional reaction to something. Then, as I waited for Cilla, the gentle strumming of an acoustic guitar filtered down an echoing hallway. She came before me a changed woman. Her guitar centred her in the same way I felt getting my badge back did. She hardly seemed aware of being imprisoned. I'm not in any way musically-educated, but I could tell Cilla was.

She was tuning and experimenting with chord progressions with scientific rigour. If there wasn't more urgent matters, and of course, if it wasn't in itself an intrusion into a private act, I might've sat watching her practice like I would an unusual bird. Her eyes turned to mine, her gaze softened, with a casual air.

'Mr. Wright, you've returned.'

'I have. Where did you get that guitar?'

She smiled. 'Konstantin brought it with him. She's called _Yume_. I do all my songwriting on this guitar.'

'I didn't think the guards allowed that.'

'They don't. An arrangement was made.' Cilla shrugged. 'Arrangements usually are. I wasn't given the details.'

'Either way, you're looking well. I'm glad. I've made some progress with the investigation, you'll be glad to hear.'

She gave a half-nod in response, her interest thoroughly on her guitar once more. More questioning. It was understandable Cilla wouldn't be enthusiastic to talk more about what happened. I had to ease her into the conversation.

'I ran into an old acquaintance of mine who was at your concert. He was blown away by it. Paid particular compliments to your song at the encore. Was Yume the guitar you played then?'

She stopped strumming – a stray note hung in the air.

'Y-yes, it was.' She looked off to the right of me, into the distance. 'I'm glad your friend liked it. Playing that song meant a lot to me.' Cilla kept her voice level, trying to strip it of emotion. 'I'll probably never get to play it in front of such an audience again.'

'You shouldn't think of things like that. My investigation opened up a few paths for us to pursue in the trial tomorrow. We have a fighting chance.'

'My apologies, Mr. Wright, but I wasn't thinking about the trial. Whatever happens will happen, of that I am aware. Do you really think I'll get to go back to music, presuming I go free?'

I didn't know.

'If I can prove you're innocent, then why wouldn't you be able to? Your fans will still want to see you.'

Cilla smiled mirthlessly, the bitter smile I saw when we first met.

'You're kind, Mr. Wright. Kind and naive. Sylvester is in charge of managing my career, wherever it may go. He knows how to interpret events such as these. I'm done regardless of the trial. The kind of concert I performed yesterday couldn't be replicated, even if no-one was murdered.'

'What do you mean by that? Did he tell you your career's over himself?'

She shook her head. 'Things rarely need to be as direct as that for a message to be sent. I knew the future was no longer my own as soon as I left the stage that night.'

'...Is that why you started drinking?'

She didn't respond.

'Cilla, there are some matters I discovered during the investigation I'd like us to talk about. I knew there were things you weren't telling me when we first had our talk. I did nothing because I needed to see the scene for myself. The case against you isn't airtight, but that's presuming you work with me on this.

You told me you couldn't remember what happened because you drank too much at an afterparty in your hotel. The night manager on duty yesterday told me that there were arrangements for an afterparty prepared, but that you didn't go ahead with them. You went straight to your room following your return to the hotel. What really happened?'

'...I had an afterparty in my room, then. I invited some of the girls from the opening act, that's all.'

'You didn't do that. They were all seen at the bar downstairs, where they remained when you were found, hours later, unconscious outside the hotel.'

'Mr. Wright, I don't know if you want to pursue this subject.'

'Let me be the judge of that. I still have some questions. You said earlier "your future was no longer your own when you left the stage that night." Was that something to do with the song you sang? _Nobody Has to Stay_?'

Yume slipped out of Cilla's hands, landing on the floor with a dull _thunk_. She scrambled to put the guitar back onto her lap. 'I'm guessing you already have an idea in mind, Mr. Wright.'

'I do. I was reading a review of your new album in a music magazine while I waited to meet Sylvester Coen in Babel Records. It put a lot of focus on "pristine electro-pop melodies". Your whole show sounded like a very tightly choreographed ensemble piece, and Mr. Coen himself noted it was set to make you a mega-star. Concerts like that don't end in new solo material, they end on the musician's biggest hit, don't they? That song wasn't supposed to be performed that night. You changed the plan last-minute.'

'You're quite perceptive, Mr. Wright. And correct. I wasn't supposed to play it. I decided after rehearsals and informed the stage and lighting crew without telling anyone else.'

'A big risk. The kind you wouldn't make unless it was very important, would you Cilla? Why that song?'

She took a deep breath.

'I want to tell you the truth, but putting everything into words is so difficult. Without feeling, the words mean nothing. Would it be alright, for the moment, if I showed you?'

'Of course.' I felt a little bad for having to put the heat on Cilla earlier, so it was important to remain sympathetic to her efforts to communicate. I imagined re-textualising our conversation in terms of having my Magatama. Confronted with a client hiding something from me, I can approach breaking Psyche-Locks like a puzzle. Disinterested, focused only on overcoming my obstacle. Sometimes that means I have to be somewhat cruel. Without those Psyche-Locks hanging over Cilla, I needed to be more delicate. It made my job harder, but in a way I was glad I couldn't rely on them. It seems...a little inhumane to use them to pry open people's hearts. A human being is not a game to be won. The Magatama was hardly a corrupting influence in how I approached social relationships – it wasn't the Ring or anything like that – but in the hands of someone unscrupulous, it was unquestionably dangerous.

Cilla made some quiet adjustments to her guitar, and began to sing.

 _Rest up in the gentle sway_

 _Sister make a flower place_

 _The mother, father, brother grace_

 _A river of stones to keep her safe_

 _Come away with me today_

 _Everything should be okay_

 _Fill you pockets while you pray_

 _With some to eat and some to save_

 _Nobody has to stay_

 _But we wish they would anyways_

 _It is the evening of the days_

 _Where we have chosen to remain_

 _And while you hurt with all that pain_

 _The stars will kiss your pretty face_

 _Come away with me today_

 _Everything should be okay_

 _Fill you pockets while you pray_

 _With some to eat and some to save_

 _Nobody has to stay_

 _But we wish they would anyways_

I was rapt. Cilla's song was intensely personal and touching – I could imagine her, alone on stage, barely lit in the dark expanse, playing it for thousands of people, all temporarily united. The energy of the stadium must've radically changed – outward to inward, spectacle to subtlety. It was certainly incongruous with the typical fare of a popstar. Why had she decided to play something that seemed intended for one person in particular to so many? At an apparent cost to her artistic freedom in her career?

'That song was one I wrote for an old friend. She was my mentor in a lot of ways. I wanted to honour her on the biggest stage of my career. Not just honour, but... to prove something about myself as well. You know, that song is the only one I performed that night I wrote myself.'

'Really? You don't write your other songs?'

'I'm credited as a songwriter in the liner notes, but really all I do is approve the songs written for me. Even then, it's not really a choice. Cilla Kay-White, the popstar, the public entertainer, is just an image. A character I play; one that looks like me and shares a name, but a character nonetheless.'

She smiled bitterly. 'If I seem unenthused about the possibility of your finding me innocent in the trial tomorrow, Mr. Wright, it's only because I'd only be making a lateral move. From one cage to another. I was never "free".'

'A gilded cage to a steel one. Were you aware of how restricted you'd be artistically when you signed on to Babel Records?'

'More or less. The contract was strict, the unspoken contract stricter. I guessed what my future would be like, but living it turned out to be another thing entirely.'

She left her guitar at her feet and looked at me head-on. 'Getting to know more about me hasn't exactly helped your case, Mr. Wright. It's only further established my motive. I drank so much that night out of frustration and despair. Alcohol's natural companions. I'm being earnest when I say I don't remember the moment of the killing, but I know how I felt in the hours before it. I wanted to lash out. To hurt something, or someone.'

'You're able to talk about these things so calmly. I don't think you're capable of such violence.'

'Of course. It's your job to think that way. You're limited in terms of your career, too. My attitude may not indicate my disposition, but the feeling remains. I'm still angry. So angry, it feels separate from me. I can speak of it, as I am now, perfectly detached. Not because I have power over it. Rather the opposite. My anger brought me here. I may be behind bars, but I haven't felt so free in a long time.'

A long silence followed. I struggled to find anything to say. Cilla's bluntness gave me pause. I couldn't convince her she was innocent, regardless of whether she had killed anyone or not. She was aware of her intent. I felt an acute awareness of the nuances between sin and crime. It wasn't a crime to live, overwhelmed by rage, _wanting_ to commit murder. Neither was it right. Innocence was a legal term and a moral one. That Cilla could not be certain of being legally innocent reinforced her perception of herself as morally guilty. The dissonance between desire and the deed was painful.

'...How do you want to plead in the trial tomorrow, Cilla?' This question had never felt so portentous before. Even Engarde wanted to plead 'Not Guilty', originally. I wasn't used to defendants so close to a total confession.

'What I want...is not what you want, Mr. Wright. Nor is it what Sylvester or Konstantin want. My fans too, do not share my desire. Would you really want me to plead 'Guilty' if you yourself did not feel it to be so?'

'My feelings don't matter here. Nobody's feelings or opinions matter except _yours_. This is about your life, Cilla. It's entirely your decision.'

'Pretty words, Mr. Wright, pretty words signifying nothing I've not heard before. It is incredible in this day and age how often a woman is told her soul is free despite all evidence to the contrary.' Without a trace of emotion on her face, Cilla spoke. 'If I could make the decision I wanted to make, I would take the gun I had that night and kill myself here and now.'

She spoke, not under duress or in significant emotional turmoil, but like a soldier before the firing line, or a wise philosopher. It wasn't just words.

'I've never felt like that. I suppose I've been lucky.' I muttered, half to myself, avoiding Cilla's gaze. 'I'm too terrified of death to see it in such terms. I don't think I can dissuade you from that thought, because I don't understand it, so I won't try. Not now, anyway.'

Then I smiled. 'You won't feel that way by the time this trial is over. I'm going to find the truth about what happened. You won't have to doubt what you've done.'

She looked into my eyes for a moment, and began to laugh, despite herself. 'You just don't give up, do you? Very well then. I'll trust in your judgment.'

'Thank you, Cilla. Before tomorrow, I'm meeting with Sylvester and Konstantin. You're aware that, in order for me to adequately defend you, I may have to cross-examine them in court? See if they're hiding anything?'

'I'm quite aware. Can't stop you from trying. Don't think it'll go anywhere.'

'We'll see. Thanks for talking to me today. I'll see you again tomorrow.'

'Goodbye, Mr. Wright.' Cilla smiled as I left. Our lawyer-client relationship wasn't perfect, but she told me enough for me to defend her as best I could.

Before the trial, there was the pre-trial. I felt more apprehensive meeting Coen and Ivanovic again than I did imagining tomorrow's courtroom. For one thing, it became clear Coen had been watching my every move. When I left the detention center, a limousine was waiting for me. The driver said little, only that 'Mr. Coen is expecting you.' I wasn't used to this sort of luxury. The plush leather seating actually felt kind of weird on my back, like I was sinking in quicksand, being contorted in some vulnerable, easily preyed-upon fashion. I'm guessing people wouldn't travel around in fancy vehicles if they felt as uncomfortable in them as I do, but they definitely have to feel uncomfortable about _something_. All these limos have tinted windows, after all. The people inside don't want to be seen. I wouldn't care if anyone saw me or not, because who am I? I have the same privacy of an average citizen, anonymous in the city street. I don't need to hide away in such ostentation that I am _visibly_ hiding. It's said celebrity isn't for everyone, but I wonder who it _is_ for. I'm not saying people don't want to be rich, but that nobody wants the stress and unease of constant scrutiny. Mr des Crete with his social media management made me feel exposed enough.

People like Coen and Ivanovic were part of the celebrity scene, but existed invisibly within it. Well, Coen certainly wasn't _invisible_ , with all the press conferences he'd been doing with this case, but he was deliberately trying to provoke attention away from Cilla, onto himself. Before today, he wasn't a public face to those unaware of the pop music scene. And Ivanovic, remaining with Cilla at all times, passed without notice. It was expected that she'd have a bodyguard, so no-one would take particular notice of him. He'd have his own share of stress and unease, though. If celebrities found it difficult dealing with the fickle nature of admiration and hatred from "the public", then bodyguards had to study that tidal ebb and flow of fame with absolute dedication. They had to assume that danger lurked within the massing crowds.

It was odd how those two sides were in opposition. Celebrity atop a precipice, magnified above millions. The image of a celebrity was a manufactured one – a dishonesty designed to sell a product, to make a fortune. And yet the celebrity did not exactly manipulate or extort the people below it, because the celebrity has their role they cannot deviate from without strict punishment. Love turns to hate, and the level of scrutiny they live under has destroyed many a life. The highs and lows of select lives become of the public interest, are circulated in the news. Despite thinking myself an empathetic person, essentially decent, if unwilling to praise myself as absolutely "good", I don't feel any sympathy for the latest celebrity scandal I chance upon in the news or the papers. That's the price of fame. No pain, no tragedy becomes theirs alone.

If I wasn't intimately involved with this case, if I hadn't met Cilla myself, discovered she was an authentic, complicated person, would I have been moved by her public plight?

" _Popstar in the prime of her career guns down fan in drunken rage."_

Why would I be sympathetic to her? It's an unusual story, and a typical one too. Garish excess, wealth and fame causing some to believe they're above the law. I hope she rots in jail. There's one narrative, and one response. Despite the intricacy and individuality of every human experience, the reductive and arbitrary cruelty of "damn this celebrity, I hope they rot" is a common reaction to these sorts of stories. The media frames its news in a certain way, and perpetuates a cycle of negativity that grinds away at the presumption of innocence in the casual spectator. The news is often depressing and disquieting. The inclination toward hope and essential human goodness is something one must foster separately from the "realities" the media constantly bombards us with. I mean, I think most people are decent. "Decent" being morally unremarkable, inclined towards goodness but not powerfully altruistic. Good in a very feeble sense, the sort of good that is easily manipulated.

A human being is oftentimes satisfied with the easy answer over the correct one. That in itself is a leading statement, for so many people disagree with what is "correct", with what is "true". I'm not even sure how to process the level of vitriol, the lack of common ground we may have with interpreting truth. I'm a lawyer, so I have to work within the legal paradigms of truth. I have to see how someone like the Judge would understand the truth, and present my case in that light. I'm lucky that my experience with judges supersedes my experience with others regarding a serious dedication to the truth, to be willing to contemplate nuance over prejudice. If we don't have justice and equity in the courtroom, we'll struggle to have it anywhere else. The Dark Age of the Law is not over. Edgeworth knows that best of all, being such a decisive combatant against it. We may not be in the grip of open corruption and injustice in our courtroom, but some of most deep-seated issues remain, and fester. They're the hardest challenges of all to overcome.

The fate of the Jurist System is still ambiguous. It's...actually been an awkward subject between Apollo and myself. The legal frame I work within now is imperfect. Someone in understanding of its loopholes like Kristoph Gavin could evade justice within it flawlessly. Was it a good thing that, for me to take him down, I had Apollo present forged evidence? That I used the Jurist System test trial to trap Kristoph and expose him once and for all? It wasn't, but it had to be done. Was my support of the Jurist System intended for that purpose alone? If so, wasn't I guilty of manipulating a system for my own ends, as Kristoph did? In a sense, I am. I didn't support the Jurist System for that reason alone... though I did at first. It was originally a vehicle for my revenge, and in its deployment it had that effect. There are several contenders for the 'happiest day in my life', but the one I don't like to think of in that category is the day I took Kristoph down with the Jurist System.

It's not a... wholesome sort of happiness I felt then, nor is it that when I think about that day. Holding that sort of power over someone, even if it's someone who deserves it as Kristoph did, is a corrupting influence. If my life was a little different and I trained as a prosecutor instead of a defence attorney, I think I would've been a pretty nasty, vindictive guy.

The Jurist System is out of my hands now. It's being bandied about in academic debate, as it has been since the test trial ended. It could be years more before any practical decision regarding implementing it is made. That the test trial was designed as I designed it only complicates the issue. I manipulated a system to flush out a criminal manipulating the previous system, our present system. Which courtroom procedure is more vulnerable to exploitation? Not surprising it's a convoluted debate. Despite being a proponent of the system, I feel a twinge of reactionary misanthropy when I think about potential jurors. If justice in the courtroom is imperfect, the concept is nigh non-existence in the public eye. Like I said, people like easy answers. The media frames life in such a way that often gives people these easy answers, letting them think they came to those conclusions by their own merit.

If you asked me if I trusted in the intelligence of "the man on the street", I'd probably give you a conflicting answer depending on the day, if the weather was fine or if I got out of the wrong side of the bed or something else completely arbitrary. And I'd be honest in saying that I did or didn't. Doesn't it sound so awful, so anti-human, to worry about the implications of what is essentially a more democratic court? And yet, sometimes, I have these doubts. On other times I don't, but sometimes I have them.

Have you ever sat down and, deep in thought, misperceived the passage of time? When your reverie breaks and day has become night, do you wonder what happened to the world in your absence from it? I mean, I don't really expect that to have happened to you. I don't think it's a common experience. I guess I was just trying to dress up the statement "before I knew it, it was dark". Anyway, the limo came to a halt, and I stepped outside, onto the environs of Austen House. I wasn't sure if I was in a particularly leafy, wealthy suburb or out in the countryside entirely, but I knew I was far from home. Before me stood a facsimile of a grand old English manor, the kind a duke or earl would reside in with a host of servants, who one fine evening would invite a set of distinguished guests to a dinner party only for horror to strike – for someone would die at the party, then another. One by one, until there were none.

I guess that's not something that happens outside of mystery novels, but that's the vibe I got arriving here. Far from being the place of antiquated customs that it appeared, Sylvester Coen himself waited at the door to greet me and show me in. He wasted no opportunity to allow me the glimpse the spectacle of his home.

'Yes, it's a reproduction of an old manor home I saw in north Scotland when I holidayed there about, oh, it must be twenty-five years ago by now. Certain parts of that wonderful land seem to have more enchanting old ruins than you can shake a stick at...This is a young country, after all, Mr. Wright – the manor I saw was built before this country was founded...I wanted to bring the weight of that history back with me, so brick-by-brick, I had a team of architects build Austen House.'

To tell the truth, I had little interest in gawping at his luxury. I'm a man of simple tastes. I couldn't imagine living in a place that seemed to feel so... impressed by itself. The kind of house that isn't built to live in, to accommodate human bodies, but as a kind of brusque challenge to nature; a monument to arrogance. It couldn't possibly be a home to anyone. Despite Coen's fond storytelling as he showed me around, it didn't seem like a home to him either. Aesthetically it was at complete odds with the minimalism of his office. Everything here looked like it could conceivably exist in some warped 18th-century palace. It was baroque and garish in a way that his office in Babel Records tried very much not to be.

The rich have the freedom to engage with art in a way that the average person, even one interested in expanding their aesthetic sensibility, cannot. Consider the art museum. I've been to a few, back in my college days. Hundreds of priceless masterpieces dating through the centuries, each with profound stories about the human condition, litter the walls of these galleries. Too many to spend one day gazing at them, especially when one is surrounded by so many other museum-goers. The wealthy aesthete doesn't have those problems. They can hire out private gallery viewings for their own pace. They can buy art, when the average person can rarely afford anything beyond screen-prints and seaside sketches from smoking artists. They can engage with art in a more sustained way and feel comfortable in it, for so much classical art or painting of the last five-hundred years has been for the eyes of elites alone.

Though Coen certainly has the time and money to self-mythologize through art – to express himself through the walls of the rooms he enters – I struggled to come to any conclusions about him based on his house. A copy of an old manor. He couldn't feel at home here. A copy of a house still functionally belongs to the owner of the original, doesn't it? Like a photograph of a person is primally _theirs_ before it is of the wider world. That's probably an uncommon opinion, though. Especially among celebrities.

'I do hope you're hungry, Mr. Wright.' Coen remarked toward me as we headed for the dining room.

'I haven't eaten all day. I was so busy I forgot,' I said with a smile.

'Oh, you must not forget. We all must eat. Though I am glad to hear you were so busy. Consider your work for this evening over. We must relax and talk at our leisure. You seem rather comfortable in facing the trial tomorrow, are you not?'

'For the most part, yes. I have a thing or two worked out.'

'Keeping your cards close to your chest? You don't need to hide anything from me, Mr. Wright – an ally of Cilla's is an ally of mine. Before anything else, let us sit.'

We entered the dining room, the centrepiece of which was an extremely long table, the kind of which a fantasy king dined at. Konstantin Ivanovic was already seated as we arrived, at the far right. Two glasses of water flanked him, appearing almost like a set of scales. I immediately moved to sit opposite him. More than Coen, this was the man I needed to have a conversation with tonight.

'Gentlemen, I believe you've already briefly met. Phoenix Wright, meet Konstantin Ivanovic. Ignore, if possible, the size of my table, Mr. Wright – it will only be the three of us dining this evening. Now, I'll leave you two to get further acquainted while I make some preparations with the chef.'

With that, Coen left. Konstantin kept a level eye on me as he took a small sip from the glass on his left, followed by the one on his right.

'Why do you have two glasses of water?' I asked. Probably a rude way to open a conversation, but it bothered me in the moment.

Konstantin's brow arched quizzically at me. 'I like to have two of everything. One can be quickly replaced.' I had accidentally broached some obscure aspect of Konstantin's philosophy with my question. He slowly cracked the knuckles in his hands as he sat back in his seat.

'How is your investigation going?' he asked in an almost mockingly casual tone.

'I'm satisfied with what I've gotten, in comparison to what I started with. The scene of the crime certainly didn't reveal anything in Cilla's favour, but there may be a witness reporting in court tomorrow. People lie often more readily than a crime scene does. Things'll all depend on the cross-examination.'

He didn't seem convinced. 'She's guilty.'

'I believe she's innocent.'

'Perhaps she is innocent of the crime, but in another way she's still guilty. She spoke to me. The prosecution hold all the cards. You cannot bury your head in the sand until things get better, Wright.'

'With all due respect, _Mr. Ivanovic,_ I'm doing all that a defence attorney _can_ for my client. Can her bodyguard say the same?'

This amused him. Konstantin sat upright, eyes widening as if he'd been woken up.

'Has your investigation cast aspersions on my character, Wright?'

'Cilla had your gun when she went out to the alleyway that night. I gathered there was trouble after the concert.'

'Sylvester took her aside, had some words with her...she said nothing in particular about it with me.'

'That doesn't change the issue with the gun.'

'I taught her how to shoot. Not merely to defend herself. Have you ever fired a gun, Wright? It is not a weapon alone – it is a marvellous and complex mechanism. Man triumphed over nature because of his ability to make and use tools.'

'Answer my question.'

'Answer mine.' Konstantin's smile was thin on his lips. At any moment he could reveal his teeth. My heart began beating like a snare drum.

'I haven't fired a gun. I think they can be quite dangerous in the wrong hands.'

'You're right. Luckily, her hands were not the wrong ones. She fired with great accuracy and finesse. She neutralised her target. Her hands were careful and precise. It was a cold killing, as though she were on the range with me.'

'She was drunk, how could it have been cold?'

'You've never seen her angry?' He paused, searching my face for a response, and finding his answer. 'She has icy fire in her veins. Do you think I made her this way? She begged me to learn how to shoot. At first, it was as sport. She practiced archery when she was in school, and wanted to move onto something more. You can ask around about her lessons. I taught her how to be safe around weapons. I didn't encourage her toward violence. I told her about war.'

Konstantin's smooth, measured tone shook slightly in his last remarks.

'You were a soldier before you became Cilla's bodyguard, I heard it said.'

'I _am_ a soldier. It is not something a man stops being. Even in death.' A huge fireplace sat to the right of us. The fire blazed, flecks of cinder occasionally spitting out, intercepted by an iron fire guard. Konstantin stared into it, and I watched his face soften, his eyes waver. He looked like I felt when I fell deep into reminiscence, neither nostalgic nor haunted, but ambivalent.

'I'm not from this country, as you can probably tell from my accent. But I have no homeland either. Not anymore. I enlisted to fight, to protect my home. Protect my comrades. I had no idea what war would be like. Part of me relished it. I trained to be a killer, and now I could go and kill with impunity for a noble cause. I looked forward to battle. And when battle came, it was more than I ever imagined. I'd never felt more alive or more happy. War isn't hell. War is life – it's _heightened reality_. And one man alone cannot win a war. A man cannot fight bombs or gas. I did everything, and for my efforts, the place where I was born doesn't even have a name anymore. What was the point?'

He turned back to me, his face inscrutable. 'Do you believe in God?'

I hadn't expected that question. I'm not religious, and indeed, my experience as a defence attorney has caused me to see some of the worst of humanity. I can't be a great believer in humanity's goodness. And yet I've seen the dead, momentarily full of life. Spirit channelling. There is an afterlife, of sorts. Despite the time I spent with Mia, after she died, we never had the opportunity to have a conversation about...being dead. I don't know why I didn't ask more. I don't know why she didn't talk about it. I know so very little, almost nothing.

'I'm agnostic.' I said. It was about all that I could say that seemed truthful. Konstantin only snorted in response.

'Agnostic...I asked a question about _belief_ , Wright. About faith. It is a yes/no answer.'

'In that case...yes, I think I do. Not in any meaningful religious sense, but I guess there must be some sort of power out there, responsible for everything.'

'You make suppositions, but you do not live accordingly. I find people like you wearying. They believe the question of God's existence is something that can be treated lightly, as a half-measure, as though it did not directly concern morality and a reason for being.'

'I'm sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Ivanovic, but that's the answer I have. Maybe I should think about it more, but I have a lot to think of as is. I'm guessing you're devout?'

'Ha...! Devout? No. I believe, unflinchingly, in the absence of a God in this world. I offer no misguided scientific rationale behind my thought. I have faith the world is chaotic, without rhyme or reason. I know it at the core of my soul.' Konstantin stood up and walked over to the fireplace, grasping the mantle with one hand, turned toward me.

'You may be an experienced defence attorney, and you may believe you can help Cilla, but you are ignorant. This trial will not help her. Since I started working as her bodyguard, I've been trying to get Cilla out of this business. It is vapid, crass and commercial – if she wanted money, that would be acceptable, but that is not why she sings.' He turned again, toward the roaring fire.

'I was the reason she played that song as her encore, the one that received her such ire from Sylvester. I provoked her, told her she was not an artist. That her career meant nothing, that it would not make her happy. She must've tried to prove me wrong...when she was punished, she lashed out. She stole my gun, Wright, I did not give it to her — and it was no negligence of mine that it was stolen, for she knew me well and guessed where it would be hidden. She took the gun and went out that night feeling, perhaps, something similar as to how I did, before I had my taste of violence. It was her decision. And that is why I call her guilty.'

There was a long silence. I found I could say little more to Konstantin, that I felt slightly ill before I'd even begun eating. He and Cilla were obviously closely connected. Maybe he affected her too much. Maybe the reverse was true. Coen had been gone an awfully long time. I made my excuses for the bathroom and decided to snoop around. I wandered lost for a solid minute until I heard Coen's voice behind a closed door. I crouched down to look through the keyhole, but I could only see his torso. He was on the phone.

'...Your co-operation on this issue will be of great benefit to us both, let me remind you... All I am saying is the tracks are laid. There is only one direction to which this trial can go, and it would only cost you to be seen trying to shift tracks. I know very well your talents are underutilized at present. This will change, I promise.

...Yes, you'll need to be present tomorrow. It will be as swift as you'd like. I'm not asking you say anything you're uncomfortable with. Nothing against your own principles. Hm? Well, not exactly. Then you understand. Good. We will speak again soon. Thank you. Yes, goodbye. Goodbye.'

Were it not for the arm-wrestling to get off the phone I've often experienced talking to someone, I might not've moved away from the keyhole before Coen opened the door. I quickly stepped away and walked toward a bathroom I'd seen in my idle wandering about the manor. When I returned to the dining room, both Coen and Konstantin were seated.

'I must apologise terribly for the delay. Business calls come at all hours, as I'm sure you're aware, Mr. Wright. Come, sit down. The food is coming shortly. I hope you like steak.'

'I do, thank you Mr. Coen.'

'Oh, call me Sylvester. Konstantin does. And while we're at it, I'll call you Phoenix. No need for formality over a meal. Are you hungry, Konstantin?'

After his brooding by the fireplace, Konstantin had returned to his stoic self, now sitting with a dual set of wine glasses. 'Yes. Terribly.'

'Oh my, we must get you sorted soon. Konstantin can get very terse when he's hungry. He is a rather sensuous man, but then aren't we all? Why don't you have some wine, Phoenix?'

'I couldn't. With a trial tomorrow, I try to avoid alcohol or anything like that.'

Coen nodded approvingly. 'Very sensible. You know, I used to be quite a demon when it came to the drink. I only really drink wine now for the health benefits. Never more than a glass or so a week.' He poured his glass as he spoke, then examined the bottle. 'Italian. _Via Dolorosa_ , about thirty years old. I was somewhat of an enthusiast for the more vintage stuff back when I was a heavy drinker, though I think that interest was borne less so for appreciating the taste of wine than as an excuse to drink regularly.' He put the glass down, his face suddenly solemn and tired.

'Of course, though I made many mistakes drinking as a young man, none were quite so costly as that which brings us all here. Poor Cilla. Tried for the crime of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Destiny's dark hand at work...' He took a swig of wine.

'But let us not think of _Destiny_ when we sit in the presence of a man so thoroughly capable of thwarting its designs.' Coen smiled at me. 'How goes it, Phoenix? Who's our suspect, the real killer?'

'The real killer? I have no clues that point at anyone yet, Sylvester, but I don't think there's a conclusive case against Cilla. Not until it's put before me in court.'

'No clues?' Coen turned toward Konstantin. 'Did I hear that correctly? He has no clues?'

'That's what he said.'

'I don't mean to sound as shocked as I am, Phoenix, but I am quite disheartened by this. If our true killer is not looming over our heads, what must we do? How do you intend to argue for Cilla? If she's found guilty for first-degree murder, she could easily get life imprisonment.'

'I...am aware of the law, Sylvester. That's not what concerns me. I believe she's innocent.'

'You believe so, and you offer nothing concrete to make that case tomorrow. You must excuse me, Phoenix, but perhaps I understand Cilla's welfare better than you do. She cannot play concerts in a jail cell. We are not the only ones who will suffer in her persecution. She has fans the world over. I cannot accept a guilty verdict...unless we looked into arguing for a lesser charge.'

'Excuse me? You don't want me to argue for Cilla's innocence?'

'Of course I do! For her _relative_ innocence. The poor girl made one mistake. She drank too much. If I were seeking to paint the town red, I would not bring a weapon to the party, but then I am not a young woman. She wanted to protect herself, and it was doubly unfortunate that she was forced to. The girl was defending herself, Phoenix, wasn't that obvious from your time investigating?'

'...She doesn't remember firing the gun, but that was a possibility I considered. I thought you hired me because you believed Cilla was innocent, Sylvester?'

'We've already had this talk. I hired you because I thought _you_ would believe. I also thought a renowned attorney would come to me after a long investigation armed with a little _more_ than just belief. Thus, I give the pragmatic argument. How familiar are you with that man she shot?'

'Virgil Chadwick? He was at her concert, wasn't he?'

'Yes, he was. What was he doing in that alleyway near her hotel? What was he doing that frightened Cilla so toward violence?'

'That wasn't clear from my investigation. Information on the victim was scarce.'

'Well then, isn't it good you have an ally with powerful friends? I did a little digging. Dispatched a private investigator. She found Chadwick's laptop, started combing through his hard-drive.' He handed me a file. 'This... _enterprising_ young man was involved in a community that created Deepfakes. Do you know of them?'

I shook my head. Konstantin coughed and hung his head, disgusted.

'Chadwick could take images or videos and near-seamlessly superimpose them onto other image or video files. It's not yet illegal, but I'll try my damnedest to make it so. The most common purpose of creating a Deepfake is to splice the face of a famous celebrity onto the body of a pornstar. Chadwick had a sordid trove of pornography stashed away, and I'm sure you can guess one person in particular he possessed Deepfakes of.'

The sickly feeling in my stomach intensified. I didn't look at the file, setting it aside.

Konstantin slammed the table with his fist. 'I'm glad the bastard's dead.' he spat between clenched teeth in undisguised fury.

'Now, now, Konstantin. Please try to relax. I know this is a trying time. So you see, Phoenix, that the encounter between Cilla and Chadwick in the alleyway was not some terrible accident. My investigator is still looking into things, but we have good cause to believe he was looking for her. Who knows what might have happened had she not been carrying a gun on that night? I don't think anyone can blame her for feeling threatened.'

Coen was right...though this new piece of evidence wasn't one I could use decisively to argue Cilla's innocence. It was one to make the case for a self-defence or manslaughter ruling. Extenuating circumstances. A killing under duress. Everything was piling and piling up on me that, maybe, I wouldn't be arguing for her innocence tomorrow. It didn't feel right.

Our meals arrived, though neither Konstantin nor I were ones much for eating after Coen had dropped that bombshell on us. He, however, ate with a cheery, casual relish. Apart from that, the evening was nothing much to speak of. Night was calling, and following that, the trial. Only in the heat of the courtroom could I hope for the big picture to take shape, and for the pieces to begin falling into place. For the first time I can remember, at least since I was a kid, I said a prayer before bed. It didn't ease my anxieties, and I struggled to get to sleep. Maybe I'm just not the praying type. I can only hope that I don't need to be.


	7. VII - GA Carver

_A/N: Hello everybody. Part of the reason (which isn't enough of an excuse, I know) this chapter has been awhile coming is that I wanted the trial of my story to have an Ace Attorney feel when it came to music. So I've put in a few annotations for songs if you'd like to get that courtroom feeling in response to beats of the story. Hopefully it'll be of interest to someone other than myself._

[1] Courtroom Theme: watch?v=mLSDjIHiStk

[2] Carver's Theme - The Scholarly Prosecutor: watch?v=TWa0nGUmfkk

[3] Logic Trinity: watch?v=u5Vry9m1zZs&t=91s

[4] Cross-Examination - Moderato: watch?v=ASAg-OivUTQ&t=151s

[5] Objection! : watch?v=xpNmmUDHokw

Tuesday, 5th December

1:20

District Court

Defendant Lobby No. 3

Sylvester Coen prepared another limo for my journey to court. I hadn't expected it when I was getting ready in the office in the morning, but I quickly grasped the intent of the gesture. I had to be ushered into the lobby by bailiffs and other aides – the courtroom was swamped with reporters and spectators. The crowds nearly always come for a murder case, you know. I'd like to think they come for better reasons than observing some gruesome public spectacle, for better reasons than gawking at a killer in the open. I'd like to think that, but I haven't observed a better reason for the popularity of those cases. Even so, this trial was the perfect storm. Luckily, I was halfway past the throng of reporters before they realised who I was. I don't think I'd have anything suave to say or throw out any casual remark about my chances of victory in court. Getting involved with reporters might've rattled me. I needed to focus on what was directly in front of me.

Cilla was leaning on a wall in the corner of the lobby when I arrived. The buzz of the assemblage was more audible than cicadas in summertime. She looked calm; impassive. Inwardly I recognised this couldn't be a completely dissimilar situation to waiting backstage before a concert. She was before an audience either way. I wondered if this audience would be quite so receptive to her.

'Good afternoon, Cilla.'

'Mr. Wright. Good to see you made it here in one piece.'

'I didn't realise that would be a concern until I arrived.'

...

Pleasantries aside, I couldn't think of anything to say. We both avoided looking at each other. I felt an urge to ask if she knew what Coen had learned about Chadwick, but resisted it. What difference would it make now? I wasn't ready to plead self-defence on Cilla's behalf. That'd be like throwing in the towel. At the same time, guilt encroached upon me. This trial would be an ugly public spectacle: I had no doubt about that. I was intending to prolong the trial as much as necessary to find evidence favouring Cilla. That wouldn't come without its own harms.

'Mr. Wright.'

I looked up.

'Focus on doing your job today. What you do best. I don't want your performance to suffer by any misguided concerns on my part. If you wish to believe in me, when I do not, believe. If you wish to fight for my innocence, fight.' Cilla gestured towards the buzz of the crowd congregating in the neighbouring room. 'Don't pretend they aren't here, because they are — the pretence won't hold. But don't act like they will influence how you hold yourself in court today. I'm not afraid of any of it, and I know you're not either.'

I nodded, a smile creeping onto my face. Cilla was right. All I could do was move forward, as though it were any other trial before us. The bailiff called us in. It was beginning.

1:30

District Court

Courtroom No. 2

'Court is now in session for the trial of Cilla Kay-White.'[1]

And with those words, the Judge began. The courtroom was packed – the spectators above sat so tightly together as to resemble an anonymous mass more so than a group of individual people. I tried not to spare them a second look.

'The defence is ready, Your Honor.'

'The prosecution is, alas, quite unready, Your Honor.' A high-pitched, soft-spoken voice rang out from...somewhere. I couldn't see anyone at the prosecution's bench.

'Excuse me... where is that voice coming from?' Neither could the Judge.

'I told one of the courtroom aides I may need assistance to stand properly at the bench, Your Honor, but it seems in the chaos of seating everyone my needs were sadly neglected.'

George Avery Carver stepped out behind the bench onto the floor of the courtroom. An elderly black man with silver hair and a grey-and-black flecked moustache, he wore a tweed suit and thick-rimmed set of spectacles, and couldn't have been more than five feet tall. Despite the embarrassing situation to be caught up in, he smiled softly, as if to himself, eminently patient. This was not an unusual occurrence for him.

'Bailiff! Prepare a suitable step for Prosecutor Carver at once!' The Judge commanded, as the audience broke out into murmuring. The matter was quickly settled, and the Judge called for order.

'I apologize for your being inconvenienced, Prosecutor Carver.'

'No matter, no matter. It has been so long since last I've stood in this court, I cannot command the space as though 'twere my own. The prosecution is ready, Your Honor.'

'Yes. It _has_ been a long time, hasn't it, Prosecutor Carver? I recall you leaving the office around the time I first took up my place as a judge. Trying to avoid me, weren't you?'

'Ha-ha, yes.' Carver said with a smile. 'That was, of course, completely _coincidental_ , Your Honor. And you misremember somewhat – we worked one case together before I left for academia. The Shaw estate, the inheritance dispute, you recall?'

The Judge's eyes gleamed wide. 'Yes, I remember now! The man who wanted nothing of his fortune left to his children, and instead wanted his money to go to...What was it now?'

'Alphabet reform. How could you forget that curious detail? He wanted a new alphabet, with forty letters. Of course, I managed to present that the will was a flawed draft, and his money was not, ultimately, wasted.'

'Yes, yes!' The Judge's eyes seemed glazed over in nostalgia; he was laughing softly to himself, and maybe coughing also.

So the Judge and G.A. Carver had a history. I couldn't be completely surprised, considering my luck. One way or another, the relationship between judge and prosecutor would always manifest in some way potentially harmful for the defence. At least Carver didn't seem the type to bark orders at the Judge or bully him into submission. I always felt bad for him when that happened.

'You would know full well that I was returning to the bench if you came around for dinner more often, Your Honor. Have you lost your fondness for Karen's cooking?'

'Good heavens, no!' The Judge sounded as if he'd been accused of, well, murder. 'Sometimes I dream of her special beef stew, and wake up chewing on my pillow. It's been terribly rude of me not to be in more frequent contact with you, Prosecutor. Business should not interfere with pleasure. You and your wife should visit _my_ home! Between my wife and I, it might surprise you as to the identity of the household chef.'

'That would be delightful, Your Honor. We shall have to make such arrangements promptly.'

The two nattered away cheerfully together as old friends do to the general impatience of the courtroom. The squeezed spectators above were mostly restrained, but some had begun to cough in a prompt, deliberate fashion. Despite my responsibility in the courtroom, I was happy to let them chat. It was cute, really.

'...and I look forward to seeing your dog, too, Your Honor. Now, may I proceed with my opening statement?'

'Yes, yes of course, Prosecutor Carver – don't mind me.'

Carver nodded, and took a small box from beneath his papers to the side of his bench. He slowly attached a tiny microphone to the lapel of his suit jacket, tested it momentarily, then looked upward at the audience.[2]

'A young man was shot dead in an alleyway two nights ago. His name was Virgil Chadwick. His swift and inexplicable end has sent such a sharp shock into the epicentre of the Chadwick family, they could not face attending a trial to ascertain his killer so soon. Imagine his parents, his father and mother—until now, they believed the wheels of justice turned slow, and perhaps that they grind exceedingly fine—or maybe they did not think even that. In a society, human beings are so finely bound together one cannot easily comprehend its scope. How we live our daily lives, utterly dependent on faceless others. Virgil Chadwick worked in a fast-food restaurant. He could've served some of you gathered here burgers last week. Fries, milkshakes. You get the idea. He lived his life, toiled, contributed to the world around him in ways perhaps not even he realised. He is gone now.'

There was a long silence. Everyone was holding their breath, watching Carver.

'Virgil's parents believed the wheels of justice turn slow, and indeed they do for many—too slow for that justice to feel rightly won. That will not be so today. The prosecution, in co-operation with the city's police department, seeks justice for Virgil Chadwick's ignominious and violent end. We do this knowing full well that a society is a web of co-existent and subtly co-dependant human beings, and when a life is taken there is much to answer for, and it does not matter who one is—they _will_ answer for it.'

'The prosecution indicts Cilla Kay-White for the murder of Virgil Chadwick. It argues for this with due respect to the court's demand for suitable evidence, available with physical evidence, the report of witnesses and the elucidation of a motive. The prosecution shall present its argument to the court, and the truth of its claims will prove stalwart in the face of opposition from the defence.'

Carver looked at me.

'We will show money and power cannot protect anyone from the law.'

The gaze beneath his spectacles was impassive, yet mired in...disappointment. Why would he look at me like that? We'd never met before.

'If this coincides with Your Honor's wishes, the prosecution would like to call Detective Dick Gumshoe to the stand.'

The Judge blinked before realising he was called to respond. He was frowning to himself, lost in thought. 'Ah, yes Prosecutor Carver, if that is what is next on our agenda, then—'

'Hold it! Your Honor, you haven't asked the defence how we're going to plead!'

The words escaped my mouth before I grasped any deeper signification. Prosecutor Carver smiled, returning to his bench.

'Good to see my initial prod has proved the defence is not completely insensible. Yes, Your Honor, it is protocol to question the nature of the defence's plea at this point, though pragmatically it is but wasted words. Mr. Wright, beyond his better judgment, will plead Not Guilty. Is that not true?'

I think that my years in court have helped a lot with keeping a cool poker face – Apollo or Athena seem to attribute a much more confident lawyer's characteristics to my own than I expect of myself – but I doubt it was holding well at this point. If I didn't look like I was sweating to the courtroom audience, I was definitely sweating on the inside. How was Carver able to predict my move like that, and with such disdain?

'T-that is true, but it needs to be declared for the record! Cilla Kay-White is not guilty!'

My declaration set the spectators murmuring. This was probably what they came to hear. That this was going to be a battle. The Judge hit his gavel.

'Order! The court acknowledges the defence's plea. The trial shall continue with the calling of Detective Gumshoe to the stand.'

* * *

Gumshoe stood at the witness stand, grinning like the cat with the cream. Or the dog with the bone, maybe. Gumshoe's always had canine features in one respect or another. He was wearing his blue coat, something he wasted no time in bragging about.

'Name and occupation, witness?'

'I'm Detective Dick Gumshoe, from the local precinct. Definitely not Phoenix Wright, so don't get us confused just because he tries to copy my style, okay?'

A younger Phoenix might've responded with an objection, but as time has passed I've come to understand the importance of picking my battles.

'Of course not, Detective. I can understand why anyone might try to imitate you, sir, for you arrive before us looking quite distinguished!' Carver said gently, as if keeping a little joke to himself.

'Indeed, Detective. Why, if I were a younger man, I could see myself trying on a similar blue coat to yours!' said the Judge.

'A younger man? You're real complimentary, Your Honor. When I put this coat on, I really do feel like a young man again! I forget all about the pain in my back and my neck and even my toothache! I'm born again!'

Maybe you should get those checked out, Gumshoe. Go to a dentist, at least.

'Moving past pleasantries, Detective. Please explain to all gathered here the police's findings of this murder.'

'Right.'[3] A projection appeared, hovering above our heads. It was a digital map depicting the alleyway nearby Hotel Solaris.

'This is the crime scene. The alleyway is long and narrow – there are only two entryways, Point A and B. Point A is situated about 200 metres north of where the murder took place, which is about 15 metres from Point B, which leads out to the side of Hotel Solaris. The victim was walking from point A, and the accused from B. They had to meet at some point in the alleyway, hence Point X marks their meeting: the place where the victim's body was found, shot.'

'So there is no doubt that the victim and the accused met on the night of the crime?' the Judge asked.

'None, Your Honor. The victim and the killer undoubtedly crossed paths. When Chadwick's body was found, Ms. Kay-White was found shortly after, in possession of the murder weapon. It is all quite simple.' Carver said.

'I see...well, if it is that simple, then I can move on to a verdict—'

'Hold it, Your Honor! I'd like cross-examine Detective Gumshoe about the beginning of the police's investigation. When was Chadwick found, and why was Cilla arrested so quickly afterward? I'm not convinced by the rationale that she is the only suspect in this case.'

'You're quite right, Mr. Wright. We must entertain other possibilities. I suppose you've investigated local rumours of ghosts in that alleyway?' Carver smiled.

It was incredible how obsequious he managed to be while appearing a kindly old man.

'In that case, please testify on the police's discovery of the body, Detective.'

'No problem, Your Honor.'

* * *

'Besides a cursory information exchange with arena security, the police had no involvement with Ms. Kay-White's concert.'[4]

'A cursory information exchange? What was that?' I asked.

'A lot of cops either used to work for security companies or consider moving into the private sector later in life, so information on potential security threats for big events like these is exchanged freely.'

'Would you say the police, at present, has information on the backstage workings of the arena security crew?'

'Nothing like that, pal. If the cops don't need to know something, people tend not to tell us. Which is fair enough.'

'Excuse me, detective,' Carver interjected. 'Why would it be "fair enough" for the common citizen to conceal information from the police?'

'Well, uh—' Gumshoe frowned and scratched his head. 'You know, because, uh...um... Just, f-forget I said that, okay?'

'One will do their best to.' Carver replied, but he wasn't smiling this time. He cast a quick eye on the spectators above us, as if fearful for their morality.

'The precinct received a call at 2:30 AM about a body in an alleyway nearby Hotel Solaris.'

2:30 AM... I began rifling through my notes on Chadwick's autopsy report alongside the other tips Gumshoe gave me during the investigation. I was preparing questions mentally when Carver caught my eye. He'd been watching me shuffle through my papers, eagle-eyed. He put a finger to his lips and mouthed _wait_. Was he anticipating my objections before I'd even finished thinking of them?

'Police arrived by the alleyway twenty minutes later. Another police detail was dispatched, and at 3AM police arrived at Hotel Solaris looking for Ms. Kay-White.'

'Hold it, Detective! I need more information here. You say police discovered the body at around 2:50 AM, is that correct? Within _ten minutes_ they arrested a suspect? That's incredible! What crime has ever been solved so quickly? How did the police do that?'

'There was another call coming from Hotel Solaris that attracted our attention. A call for an ambulance. We received the call about the body and the separate call for an ambulance so quickly after one another we thought they might be related, so we sent another detail to accompany the ambulance.'

'So you're saying at the time of Cilla's arrest at 3AM, there was no confirmation between police officers that she was a suspect? I mean, how could there be? By your words, Detective, the police had suspicion to investigate a connection between an ambulance call and notice for a dead body. That's not enough to arrest someone, especially for murder.'

'Y-yeah! You're right, pal!' Gumshoe took my question to heart, digging into the back of his head with his fingernails with fervour. It would be unusual for a police detective to so quickly doubt the methodology of his own force, if it were not Cilla Kay-White on trial, and if it were not Gumshoe as lead detective.

'You're... agreeing with Mr. Wright on this note, Detective?' the Judge asked, puzzled. 'Surely it is your responsibility to give an authoritative account of the police's actions in this case.'

'Allow me, Your Honor.' Carver held up a conciliatory hand, as if to shield Gumshoe.

'The Detective is one who is, perhaps, too easily swayed by the rhetoric of the defence. There is a simple answer. Ms. Kay-White was _not arrested_ upon the arrival of the second police detail. The ambulance was for her, and words were exchanged between officers and the hotel's night manager that gave the officers ample reason to escort the ambulance. Ms. Kay-White was taken to a secure facility to convalesce before she was questioned, and it was as a result of this questioning that she was formally arrested. I shall hear no words from the defence that the police acted in an unorthodox manner.'

'Objection! Your Honor, questioning the actions of the police that night is vital to this case! For example, we need more information on this first call regarding the body. Who could've known about this?'

'Yes, the details surrounding this call are vague. The Detective should expand on the nature of this call to the court.' the Judge declared.

'Yes sir, Your Honor! Y'see, the first call, about the body, was _anonymous_. We don't know who it was that called. The police keeps an anonymous hotline available to encourage civilians to report on possible crimes without being endangered themselves.'

'Or indicting themselves, Detective?' I asked sardonically. This anonymous call was the lifeline of my case – I had to make it look suspicious.

'No way, pal! We did some research and it turns out people are far more willing to help the cops if they keep their privacy, see? It's natural to avoid too much attention; after all, you hear all sorts of stories in the news.'

'What sorts of stories are these, Detective?'

'Objection, Your Honor.' Carver spoke flatly, while pressing a small button on his lapel mic to increase its volume. Maybe it was his age, maybe his size, but he couldn't bellow his objections the way so many prosecutors do. And defence attorneys, too... Apollo comes to mind. Nevertheless, with his microphone, Carver ensured he was heard.

'The defence made a spurious remark and I request we return to our intended line of questioning.

'I'm afraid I must overrule your objection, Prosecutor Carver. The detective brought up these "stories in the news", and the defence has a right to ask for more information.' the Judge decreed. Wow, I didn't actually expect that to go in my favour.

'I think there was a story on TV just a week ago about a family that called the cops to report a robbery. When police came around, they shot the family dog for barkin' at them funny or something like that. Isn't that horrible? If I knew who did that...' Gumshoe was fuming, quavering with an impotent rage. He might not be the most competent detective in the world, but nobody can say that he's defending the less savoury aspects of his institution.

'Please, Detective, do not let one story sway your mood. You have only one side of the story – consider the safety of your comrades. Do you not recall the function of the hotline? If a call is deemed suspicious, authority can be given to unveil – to de-anonymise, as it were – the caller ID in question, and investigate the call. It is standard police practice, not some sort of PR remedy.'

Carver spoke softly, with honeyed words, and again I saw him glance at the court's spectators. He perceived a change in the atmosphere when Gumshoe spoke of the police shooting – that the public was aware of the story, and that hearing a detective attest to its accuracy emboldened a certain sentiment inside them. I was surprised how smoothly Carver was able to deflect criticisms of the anonymous hotline that seemed to contradict one another – that the hotline indicated the police were thought dangerous to decent civilians, and that the hotline was an effective tool for criminals to hide their identity. Still, I had questions.

'Was that authority invoked here, Prosecutor Carver?'

'Why do you ask, Mr. Wright? What rationale do you provide to believe that the anonymous call in this instance was worthy of suspicion?' Carver challenged me. I answered the challenge.[5]

'It's simple! The call was made at 2:30 AM, correct? May I direct the court's attention to Virgil Chadwick's autopsy report? _The victim died sometime between 2 and 3AM... According to his wounds, it may have taken up to half an hour for him to die._ My client was found unconscious outside the hotel at 2:40 AM. Police arrived at the alleyway at 2:50, and the ambulance came at 3:AM. If the prosecution claims that my client killed Mr. Chadwick, she had to do so before 2:40 AM, and he had to be dead by 2:50, according to the report. It is entirely within this timeframe to assume that this anonymous caller saw the crime either as it happened, or saw Chadwick's body _before he'd died_. If this caller saw Chadwick, potentially still alive, why not call an ambulance, as well as the police? And if the caller saw the crime as it happened, why not testify more directly. They clearly know more about what happened than a short and vague phone call can attest to. What is that, if not suspicious, Prosecutor Carver?'

The audience broke into conversation.

-Gee, that _is_ awfully suspicious!

-This person might've seen a murder, and they care more about hiding themselves?

-But Cilla's still guilty, right? It's still her that did it, right?

'Order!' the Judge hit his gavel once more. 'Mr. Wright has raised a legitimate concern before this court regarding the police's investigation. Were efforts made to ascertain the identity of this mystery witness, Prosecutor?'

'These concerns were raised in my preparation for this trial, Your Honor. The police did not investigate the anonymous call after it took place. When this issue was mentioned to me, I immediately ordered the identity of the caller be found...but we could not do so in time for the trial.'

'Your Honor, without proper knowledge of who this witness is, this trial cannot continue! There are valid concerns that must be identified before my client can be given a fair trial!'

'Hmm... yes, this is a problem. If the prosecution is as methodologically flawed as Mr. Wright would have it appear, then I may have no choice but to adjourn court until these questions can be answered.'

'That will not be necessary, Your Honor. The police's investigation could not identify the anonymous caller in time for today's trial, that is true...but we were blessed by the good fortune of having that caller come forward directly to us. They are willing to shed their anonymity and testify in court, today.'

'W-whaaaat?' The exclamation could not but escape my lips. Carver led me right into a triumphant reveal of his witness. I wouldn't be able to stall for more time. I took a few deep breaths, trying not to let my annoyance of Carver having successfully duped me interfere with my defence. Cross-examining this mystery witness would make or break my case. Carver, no doubt, had other traps lined up for me that I had no choice but to force myself through, if I was to convincingly argue for the guilt of someone other than Cilla. The spectators ate up Carver's response, and the Judge called for order once more. Then Carver spoke again:

'At this juncture it is crucial the court understands the events both outside and inside Hotel Solaris. Before my aforementioned witness can testify, I wish to call up Ian des Crete to the witness stand, to clarify for us the sorry story of Ms. Kay-White.'

des Crete? Why call him up now? Carver hadn't planned on playing his full hand right away. He was content with revealing his trump card and watch me scramble to respond to it. Perhaps he knew as well as I did that his mystery witness could be help my case just as much as it would hinder it. Or maybe he wanted me to spend my attentions reading into his intentions. Our eyes met once more, and his smile was taut. He certainly seemed to know me better than I him. I was disquieted. Edgeworth had never been inscrutable in this way – when we first crossed words in court, I at least knew who he _was_ , even if I wondered how he became what he had. Carver wasn't like Godot, either— he didn't seem driven by some grudge against me in particular, but there was certainly something... I had to keep my guard up. Ian des Crete was next on the witness stand.


	8. VIII - Indiscretion

_A/N: Here's the music for this chapter._

[1] The Basics of the Case watch?v=Tw8MACOJG44&t=149s

[2] Cross-Examination - Moderato watch?v=ASAg-OivUTQ&t=149s

[3] Suspense - Unease watch?v=7gbd1OOpcd0

des Crete arrived on the witness stand a new man. He'd obviously been thinking painfully about appropriate attire to wear to a courtroom, especially when giving testimony on a case as notorious as this. He'd worn no spectacles when I met him in Hotel Solaris, so I can only judge the oversized, gaudy monocle affixed to his face as a fashion statement. Certainly, he looked like someone who wanted to let others know he was important. Whether or not he actually commanded that importance through his attire was another question entirely. It was so large, and so strangely affixed to his face, his head seemed to shrink in proportion as to when I'd seen him last. In addition to the dubious monocle, he was wearing a set of rings, one for each finger of his hands, that looked like brass knuckles. I had no idea why my head made that connection – des Crete had probably never thrown a punch in his life – but the rings were forged from a dull and coarse metal, and looked too ugly to fit some aesthetic purpose. Though I suppose I could not account for des Crete's taste or lack thereof.

As when I talked to him in his office, the muscles on his face would twitch and convulse in their efforts to hold down a joyful grin and keep a solemn countenance. His eyes darted about, staring at the Judge, then the gallery, then me, then the gallery again. He was caught between delight at being the man of the moment in a packed courtroom and a defined anxiety expressed towards his studious avoidance of Prosecutor Carver's gaze. The way his mouth muscles would rise and fall made him appear as the object of an alien puppeteer. It was uncomfortable to witness, and yet...I couldn't look away. Neither could the Judge, who gawped at des Crete with open horror. A moment passed, and the Judge's gavel hammered swift.

'Witness! I order you to... stop whatever it is you're doing with your face!'

'Excuse him, Your Honor. He is as nervous as anyone would be in such an environment. Witness, please state your name and occupation.' Carver said, trying to assuage the Judge's reactive unease.

des Crete froze, his eyes blank. (Well, I assume both his eyes went blank – his monocle was completely opaque.) He clasped his hands together, servile. 'IAN DES CRETE, manager of the Hotel Solaris, AT YOURRRR SERRRRVICE!'

Both the Judge and I flinched at the eruption of his voice. Carver took off his spectacles and gave them a cursory wipe with a handkerchief, and with a deep sigh, put them back on.

'Mr. des Crete, I had hoped I would not have to remind you about the tone of voice one would prefer to hear in the courtroom.' He spoke slowly, the way one would when chiding an infant, or someone with a severe head injury. His condescension was not mired in contempt, though, but a profound weariness. Preparing des Crete to testify must've been a long and painful process for the old prosecutor.

'Oh. Yes.' des Crete's head sunk into his chest, embarrassed. 'M-my apologies.'

'If it would not trouble you, Mr. des Crete, I'd also like to ask you to repeat your occupation.'

'My...occupation? Oh, y-yes. I am the _night_ manager of the Hotel Solaris. It must've been a slip of the tongue that... that particular aspect of my job description was omitted.' des Crete's head shot up, staring at the people above us as though they were the stars themselves.

'The architecture of this courtroom is magnificent, it must be said. The decor of our own hotel was carefully chosen to impress upon our guests a certain _je ne sais quoi_ , but I must respect the layout here. I am reminded of the gladiatorial arenas of old...The courtroom, too, is a battlefield, a place where lions and men clash in gore and glory. What delightful entertainment!' des Crete's eye turned glossy. He certainly had a very...active imagination.

'The witness will kindly keep his musings strictly in accordance with the case at hand. You were on duty as night manager on the night of the murder, is that correct?'[1]

'It is.'

'The accused was a guest of your hotel on that night?'

'She was.'

'She was quite a high-profile guest, I am safe to assume?'

'Yes...' des Crete's visible eye began darting around its socket. 'A-although we have had many guests of a similar stature. The Hotel Solaris is, after all, a five-star establishment and we've off-offered exemplary service to many distinguished guests...'

'Exemplary service? Mr. des Crete, what do you mean by this?'

'Well, it is in the best interests of the hotel to go above and beyond in complying with the wishes of a distinguished guest. We typically extrapolate from what is requested in a rider such things that can make a stay with us all the more appealing.'

Usually prosecutors did not take so much time in establishing their witness's relation to the case before relinquishing their questions in favour of the defence's cross-examination. He, on the other hand, was happy to make me, and everyone else in the courtroom, wait. It couldn't be without reason.

'You mention a "rider", Mr. des Crete? Explain to the court what that is.'

'It's simple. A distinguished guest is remarkable beyond any of our other esteemed guests, as they demand specific requirements as part of their stay. An average guest may request a wake-up call at 6AM, or room service – something any hotel will oblige. Riders are contracts are drafted between distinguished guests and the hotel in question to ensure certain requirements are met. The hotel does its best to fulfil these requirements, and, as I've said, go beyond them where possible.'

Carver smiled.

'Did Ms. Kay-White require a "rider" to be fulfilled as part of her stay?'

'She certainly did. I've brought that contract with me to the courtroom today.'

'The court accepts the hospitality rider as evidence,' said the Judge.

A copy of the contract was passed to me by the unflappable bailiff. I began to quickly scan the document. The production of new evidence in the middle of a trial was such a normal event to me now that I could pretty easily evaluate a particular piece of evidence without losing focus on what was unfolding before me. Maybe it was something to do with the adrenaline of being in court, and the necessity of scanning a document for important points rapidly – I certainly couldn't speed-read anything back at the office without losing my understanding of the text completely.

 _An agreement between the representative of Hotel Solaris (henceforth referred to as 'the Hotel') and its distinguished guest, Cilla Kay-White, shall be fulfilled on the following grounds:_

 _That in edition to the amenities and luxuries the Hotel offers to all its guests, the party of Cilla Kay-White will be provided with—_

 _Three packets of Love Hearts confectionary_

 _Two bottles of La Fée Verte_

 _An empty box of corrugated cardboard, at least one yard long, one yard wide and four foot deep._

 _Three copies of a nineteenth-century novel (choice of the Hotel), in English, French and Japanese translation._

 _A postcard of a lighthouse_

 _In addition, Ms. Kay-White's hotel suite must include a lounge with blue velvet décor that contains no electronic devices whatsoever, and includes a piano._

...A pretty strange read. I glanced at Cilla when I finished reading, to make sure she hadn't grown a second head. Was this par for the course for big celebrities? The rider certainly encompassed a certain aesthetic sensibility of Cilla's, though I couldn't make out what _that_ implied.

Carver, on the other hand, did not react to the rider's appearance. Of course, he must've planned this with des Crete before the trial.

'Was every request on this rider met, Mr. des Crete?'

'Why, yes—of course. Our hotel never disappoints a guest. We met every request without fail.'

Carver nodded. 'Mr. des Crete, I would like to point your attention to the second item on that list. "Two bottles of La Feé Verte". What are they, exactly?'

'La Feé Verte is a traditional name for absinthe, prosecutor. Absinthe is—'

'You do not need to explain to me what absinthe is, Mr. des Crete,' Carver said with an idle wave of his hand.

'Erm, you might need to explain it to me, though,' the Judge piped up, his cheeks a pinkish hue.

'Ah, Your Honor, I forgot, despite our dinners together, that you were never one much for alcohol. A sober man is what is needed in a judge, of course. Allow me to explain. Absinthe is a botanically-brewed spirit, traditionally with a green colour, hence "La Feé Verte" – the green fairy. It is highly alcoholic, and for a time was believed to have powerful hallucinogenic properties, resulting in it being banned throughout the world for some time. It has since crept back into legal production here.'

'I see...a powerful hallucinogenic, was it? I don't know if I like the sound of that. I get dizzy if I eat my morning oatmeal too quickly...'

'I'm not sure I like the sound of it either, Your Honor. Mr. des Crete, when you were requested to procure these items, and decorate this peculiar lounge, did you not feel rather... suspicious, as to the intent behind such requests?'

'Not at all. They ask, we provide. I would not give it a second thought.'

'Naturally, it is not in your job description to harbour unwarranted suspicion towards a distinguished guest, is it, Mr. des Crete? It is your job. You would not give it a second thought...' Carver repeated himself, as if slowly digesting his words. 'And yet _I_ find it very strange indeed.'

'Objection! Your Honor, Prosecutor Carver has been casting aspersions toward my client without cause. What does this hospitality rider have to do with this trial?'

'Mr. Wright objects in vain,' Carver pronounced softly. 'He knows already how it relates to this trial, and, I would wager, so do many of our spectators in the courtroom galleries. Mr. des Crete has established through his word and his evidence that his hotel would go beyond reasonable means to provide for its most distinguished guests. It is important to note that nothing in this contract is illegal – presuming a guest wanted illicit substances, they would not provide evidence to that desire in writing – but the prosecution formally regards it as suspicious.

Absinthe is _highly_ alcoholic, and while it is not illegal, it has a reputation for its possible applications as a psychoactive drug. A beverage that brings its imbiber to a heavily altered state of consciousness, and a request for a peculiarly decorated room...a place that might stimulate the senses of one deliberately incurring hallucinations quite comfortably...this rider is not a list of additional luxuries to supplement the comforts of a hotel stay. I fear it is something more unwholesome entirely.'

I slammed my desk in frustration. 'I don't want to hear about what the prosecution fears! How does the prosecution argue its relevance to the trial?'

'Patience, Mr. Wright. Let an old man, fond of his words, speak his mind, when he must. In this instance, however, the prosecution does not need to answer the defence directly to make its argument known. I shall allow Mr. des Crete to speak on my behalf. Please, tell the courtroom about the circumstances in which you found Ms. Kay-White on the night of the murder.'

Carver was doing his best to frustrate me, but he couldn't stop me from getting my cross-examination. Every detail askew in des Crete's testimony mattered here. He began to speak.[2]

'My shift did not appear to be in any way out of the ordinary. There was no in-house entertainment scheduled for the night, and the restaurant had closed. One of the bellboys was taking out some trash to a dumpster outside, when he rushed over to show me Ms. Kay-White, unconscious outside the hotel. She was quite...visible, where she lay—so myself and two of the stronger young men on our staff discreetly picked her up and carried her into the hotel. Her clothes were filthy, and she stank of vomit, but at the time, we did not suspect things were any worse than this. She was unconscious when she was found, but would pass in and out of consciousness, muttering something or another, occasionally vomiting further, so it was necessary for me to stay in her presence at all times. Imagine my shock when the police arrived! And so she was taken away.'

'You can see, Your Honor, the scene beginning to set itself. Ms. Kay-White gives her obscure and strange demands of the hotel. She performs her pop concert. Upon her return, she finds the time to drink a gross amount of alcohol, disappears outside for a period of time in which a man is murdered, and is found unconscious and filthy outside the hotel. Evidence enough to suspect her.'

'I see...' the Judge mused.

'And there is, of course, the issue of the gun.'

'Hold it! Your Honor, I have a right to cross-examine the witness. Prosecutor Carver has asked enough questions to Mr. des Crete!'

If I let Carver continue, he could add layer after layer of suspicion onto Cilla without giving me a chance to argue against anything. The prosecution had the weight of evidence on its side that Cilla was guilty, and Carver was willing to remind the Judge of this at every opportunity he could. He could make allusions and border on conjecture because he had evidence – I had nothing, yet...apart from the file on Chadwick Coen gave to me...which didn't in any way work in my favour if I wanted to prove Cilla innocent.

'I don't know what I have done to upset Mr. Wright, other than my duty, but very well – he may cross-examine Mr. des Crete.' Carver sighed, and took a drink of water in resigned posture. 'Perhaps he simply wishes to get his futile arguments heard, before the matter of the murder weapon confronts him, to which he has no answer. All to ensure his hefty paycheck, I suppose.'

'If you wish to make insinuations about my work, Prosecutor Carver, you can accuse me directly. I know nothing of your personal or professional character, so I will make no slanderous remarks on your person.'

'Quite true. _You_ _know nothing of me_ , Mr. Wright. Ignorance shall be your defining virtue.' Carver's eyes were cold. Something about me made him truly angry, and yet we were strangers. The courtroom wasn't the place to bring up these animosities, but Carver was always the one to land the first blow with his insults. A few disparaging remarks were hardly the worst that had been thrown my way in court, but I had to wonder at the cause. We regarded each other silently for a moment, before I turned to Ian des Crete. His testimony wasn't much different to what he'd told me when I spoke to him yesterday, but this time it was vitally important to press every detail.

'You said the hotel's restaurant was closed, Mr. des Crete. Was the bar closed also?'

'No. The bar can stay open all night if guests so choose.'

'And that night, there were a few guests drinking into the late hours?'

'Yes.' des Crete hesitated for a moment, unsure if he should name names.

'These guests were associated with Babel Records, weren't they? With Cilla's concert earlier that day.'

'Y-yes, they were.'

'Were these particular guests the only ones in the hotel bar, or were there others?'

'They were the only ones. The bar was reserved that night, for guests associated with Babel Records only.'

'Could you name them, Mr. des Crete?'

'Sylvester Coen was there, along with some women from the music group _Carnelian_. I don't know their names. I think there was four of them, alongside Mr. Coen.'

'Did you have much contact with Mr. Coen, or with any of those women while they were in the bar?'

'While they were in the bar? No.'

If Apollo or Athena were present, I'm sure they'd have seized upon des Crete's words immediately. I had no gift for perceiving body language or hearing sub-emotional tremors in a person's voice, but I could identify des Crete's curious phrasing.'

'Did you have much contact with Mr. Coen or with any of those women _outside_ of the bar?'

des Crete flinched, and was silent for a moment. 'I believe they first checked in in the early afternoon, when I was off duty. So no, I did not have any particular contact with them.'

He'd openly told me he spoke with Sylvester Coen when the police arrived, that Coen had interrogated him. He couldn't have just forgotten that, so why wasn't it in his testimony this time?

'Mr. des Crete. When you found Cilla unconscious outside, and took her into the hotel to look after her, did you inform her manager what had happened? He was in the bar the entire time you spent looking after her until police arrived, wasn't he? Why wouldn't you tell him?'

des Crete tried to steel his nervy voice with professional resolve, which just made him sound hoarse. 'Ms. Kay-White's inebriation was not seen as a major issue that required the attention of anyone other than hotel staff equipped to take care of her. We have looked after many guests in a similar matter, you know. It was understood that Ms. Kay-White would not wish to draw further attention from Mr. Coen after...a long night.'

His final words were curiously placed in his sentence. He was going to say something else, but relented.

'Why was it "understood" that Mr. Coen would not be told about my client's drunken incident? Surely a manager could be trusted to be told about such a thing.'

'Yes, of course, but she was quite safe with us, you understand. Why make an incident greater than it was? Especially after what'd happened earlier.'

'What are you referring to? The murder?'

'No, no—I knew nothing of that, at the time! It was relayed to us that Mr. Coen and Ms. Kay-White had...exchanged strong words after the concert, so hotel staff was urged to treat affairs between them delicately.'

I knew what he meant. Cilla had gotten into a lot of trouble for ending her concert with " _Nobody Has to Stay_ ". I hadn't figured word of her argument with Coen would travel so fast. That didn't explain why he wasn't mentioning Coen's appearance alongside the police.

Carver interjected. 'What strong words were these, Mr. des Crete? I do not believe this is public knowledge.' Nor was it meant to be, Carver.

'W-w-well, it was only a rumour when it came to me, so I cannot speak of it in a courtroom with the same respect to truth that I give my testimony, sir.'

Carver nodded. 'The court will understand if your information in this respect is mistaken, Mr. des Crete, but we would still like to know what it was you believed _at the time_.'

des Crete was struck silent, puzzled by this. Then he exhaled deeply, as if he'd thrown the world off his shoulders. He smiled, his hands meeting as if in prayer, thanking a greater power.[3]

'It is said Mr. Coen and Ms. Kay-White argued terribly following her concert. Raised voices, tears, threats, door slamming. They say it was not the first time they behaved this way. Tensions had been high for a long time, following the tortuous production of her last album, _LOVERS; CASCADING_. There were...artistic concerns – Ms. Kay-White was not happy with the music she was making, and Mr. Coen was not happy with Ms. Kay-White's...lifestyle choices.'

The whispers overhead began to congregate.

'What "lifestyle choices" are you referring to, Mr. des Crete?' Carver asked in a tone that implied he knew full well already. I needed to object.

'I'm afraid Ms. Kay-White's family-friendly image may be but that: an image. That she was found blackout drunk outside the hotel was, in all truth, not shocking to me, because...it is known she drinks. Heavily. Among other things of a... more unsavoury nature.'

'Objection! I will _not_ allow the witness to continue slandering my client without basis! The courtroom is a place to discuss evidence, not rumour!' I slammed the desk harder than I've had to in a long time, trying to keep the anger from my tone. I was too late; the gallery was alive with deliriously scandalised conversation.

-So the good girl had a bad side? I knew it.

-Unsavoury? I bet that des Crete knows all the stories...

-The whole music industry is full of sordid tales. It's a miracle any of those celebrities can even go on trial!

-That defence attorney's hiding something...wonder what that Cilla did to get him hired, eh?

The Judge hammered his gavel three times, but the damage was done. Carver straightened himself upright and adopted a solemn look.

'Mr. Wright...you've finally said something I agree with. Your assessment of the court's role is correct, and I must ask the witness to watch his language from here on.' Carver said, sending a sharp glance towards des Crete, who gulped and muttered apologies.

 _Damn_ that G.A. Carver! By allowing des Crete to slander Cilla's character, then publicly reprimanding him, Carver had it both ways. I had to object, making me look like I knew things about Cilla I needed to hide, while Carver could play the role of the venerable and upright prosecutor. I had a feeling he didn't write about underhanded tactics like that in his books...but then, I haven't read any. Something was wrong with this trial. How had Carver gotten so far with so little physical evidence submitted? He'd been spreading doubt and scandal among the trial's spectators, but they weren't the ones that decided Cilla's fate. It was the Judge who did that. Was he so secure in his mystery witness that he intended to destroy Cilla's reputation before packing her off to prison for good? I had to hope he was doing this to hide the holes in his legal argument...but it was itself unlikely for a distinguished legal scholar to _have_ holes in his argument.

If I turned the case around right now, Cilla's professional career was already deeply damaged. It wasn't my job to pretend she was God's gift to the world if she wasn't, but I knew she wasn't a cold-hearted killer. Coen's face flashed through my brain. His investigation on Chadwick...I still had no steady resolution to that. Cilla had reasonable cause to shoot, alone and vulnerable in that dark alleyway. With what Coen had found on Chadwick, arguing manslaughter would be easy and persuasive...But now wasn't the time to think about that. I've been backed into tighter corners before. Why doubt my client now, damnit? I shot my most piercing glare at des Crete. If he was going to tear down Cilla's professional reputation in public, he better be ready to have his story _thoroughly_ examined by me. I'd find something.


	9. IX - Why Lie?

_A/N: Music for this chapter_

 _[1] Cross-Examination - Moderato_ watch?v=ASAg-OivUTQ

 _[2] Objection!_ watch?v=xpNmmUDHokw

 _[3] Carver's Theme - The Scholarly Prosecutor_ watch?v=TWa0nGUmfkk

 _[4] Suspense - Unease_ watch?v=7gbd1OOpcd0

 _[5] Cross-Examination - Allegro_ _watch?v=pIQeQtwTdx8_

 _[6] Discover the Truth_ _watch?v=tsWzhkwuX_I_

 _Please let me know what you think of my use of music in reviews, whether good or bad!_

'Mr. des Crete, I'd like for you to return to an element of your testimony and elaborate for me. Specifically, I want you to tell me about Sylvester Coen.'[1]

I began speaking in a light, almost casual tone, as though the conversation between des Crete and I was like one between acquaintances, and not an interrogation. I didn't have anything concrete to interrogate des Crete about yet, so it was important to speak softly with him, keeping my proverbial big stick tucked safely away. Either he'd lied to me in his office or he was lying now, I knew one of those to be true. What reason he had to lie to me then, I don't know. But now? Testifying in court, making a spectacle of himself, disparaging Cilla's public name? I didn't know _why_ he was lying, but I knew there had to be a reason.

'I d-don't think I have much to tell, Mr. Wright.'

'Because you didn't meet him.'

'I didn't. Considering the circumstances of the evening, it was understood that he wished to be kept to his own affairs.'

'To the extent that when his star client is found unconscious outside the hotel, he isn't notified.'

'Yes, he isn't...or, I-I mean, he wasn't.'

'I would've thought that a pretty major reason to tell a manager something.'

'Objection. This has all been said before. Mr. des Crete did not think the incident worthy of Mr. Coen's notice, as he was not aware a murder had taken place. The defence is dragging out this cross-examination without cause.'

'Mr. Wright, Prosecutor Carver is correct. Prolonging a cross-examination without cause may result in your being charged with contempt of court.'

I knew the Judge's threat was more of a formality than anything else – he would have to penalise me before anything more severe. But from here on out, I needed to start responding to Carver's handling of the prosecution. Stalling would only take me so far. If I didn't seem to have the evidence to object to des Crete's testimony, I might have to bluff a little here and there.

'Apologies, Your Honor. I wanted to ensure I understood Mr. des Crete's story. It seems awfully odd to me. Ms. Kay-White was being looked after inside the hotel for just under twenty minutes before police arrived, according to what we've heard from Detective Gumshoe and Mr. des Crete. Apart from the night manager and two or three other employees, nobody was aware that Cilla was in the hotel during that period. Is that what you're saying?'

'Y-yes, of course, that's been my testimony this whole time.'

'Then I have one final question: _Who called the ambulance?_ '[2]

'Hm? W-well, I— _oh!_ ' des Crete froze, paralyzed. Beads of sweat, building up the entire time he'd been testifying, flowed like rivers from his brow down his face. A hand quickly rose to cover his strange monocle, while another grabbed a handkerchief and roughly massaged his face. I pressed on.

'By your testimony, the only people who _could_ have called the ambulance were you and your employees, but you never said that. So it was one of you, wasn't it? Who else could it be?'

'W-why are you asking me? Wasn't it you that brought up earlier tha-that whole business with the anonymous tipster? Didn't that a-answer your question?'

'Detective Gumshoe's testimony was not as you remember it, Mr. des Crete. Two calls were made from inside the hotel. The anonymous call for the police and the call for the ambulance were separate until the police decided to investigate them together, resulting in my client's arrest. Either _you know who called that ambulance_ , or you failed at hiding Cilla's unconscious body in the hotel!'

'Indeed! He _should_ know who called the ambulance!' The Judge broke in eagerly. Realising his enthusiasm was somewhat inappropriate, he tried to give des Crete a stern look. 'What do you have to say to this, witness?'

He was regaining his breath now, and some semblance of his composure. 'I-uh, yes well, you see—I do know... who it was that called the ambulance. It was me.'

His words, quietly spoken, hung in the air of the now dead silent courtroom.

What? des Crete called the ambulance? Was he lying again? He'd said he hadn't in his office, but—I had to ask him.

'Why have you been lying to us, Mr. des Crete? Why didn't you say you called the ambulance sooner?'

'Objection. Your Honor, Mr. Wright is slandering my witness. He hasn't lied.'[3]

'He...hasn't, Prosecutor Carver? I thought the witness here specifically stated he didn't call the police, but now...' The Judge was puzzled.

'He was right to say he hadn't called the police, just as he is right to say he called the ambulance. They are not the same thing. No lie has escaped Mr. des Crete's lips.'

I tore through my notes of the conversation I'd had with des Crete in his office.

' _She was certainly still too inebriated to be aware of herself when the police arrive. What a shock that was!'_

' _You hadn't called them?'_

' _Absolutely not—there was no cause!'_

Damn. The conversation with des Crete wasn't admissible as evidence, but even as a guide to assess changes in his story, there was a problem. des Crete _only_ said he hadn't called the police, and carefully omitted any reference to having called the ambulance. The second police detail only arrived with the ambulance because of the suspicious nature of the _first_ phone call. There was no contradiction in des Crete's testimony after all! Only...

'Why weren't you clearer in indicating that you called an ambulance? Isn't that a significant part of your testimony?'

des Crete's voice was level and detached, like a robotic call-centre operator. 'I behaved entirely appropriately during the situation in question, and observed the high standard of personal decorum Hotel Solaris employees owe toward our guests. If my testimony was not adequate in indicating that fact, that does not result from any omission of mine, but from the poor cross-examination of the defence.'

Had des Crete been better at keeping his emotions in check, his story might've been acceptable. If his excuse for not mentioning calling the ambulance was really so neat, he wouldn't've froze up as he did when I asked the question. It was worthwhile to pursue this.

'The defence would like the witness to give further testimony regarding calling the ambulance.'

'I acknowledge the request. Witness!'

des Crete jumped. 'Y-yes, Your Honor?'

'While retaining professional integrity is an admirable aim, co-operating with the questions of both the prosecution _and_ the defence is paramount in order to ensure a fair trial for the defendant. I would prefer there be no further misunderstandings going forward.'

'Of course...' des Crete sighed. While it was good to hear the Judge wasn't totally against me, des Crete had really been given the benefit of his doubt. The night manager clearly wasn't the kind of person to minimise his involvement in something without cause. And there was still the issue with Coen to consider...

'When we brought Ms. Kay-White into the hotel, I was initially against sending for an ambulance. I have first aid training and some experience with caring for guests who wind up ill due to alcoholic consumption, so I had hoped there would be no need for it. Besides, I was concerned about making a scene – the media would wind up hearing about an ambulance being called for Ms. Kay-White – and I didn't want any sort of negative attention to fall on a guest. My hand was forced, after observing her delirious, semi-conscious state, which made me realise Ms. Kay-White was not merely drunk but suffering from alcohol poisoning. Thus the call was made. What more would you have me say?'

'It sounds like you acted entirely appropriately to me, Mr. des Crete,' said Carver.

'I, on the other hand, have some questions. What time did you call for an ambulance, Mr. des Crete?'

'Some time a-after finding her...I know not the exact minute, Mr. Wright. I was too concerned with my guest's safety.'

'The time of the call has been logged by the police in their investigation, Mr. Wright. That information is available to you if you need it.' Carver interjected. He knew I was fishing for contradictions regarding the timing of des Crete's call, and wouldn't stand for it. He called my bluff.

'That's alright, Prosecutor Carver. Mr. des Crete, what exactly about Ms. Kay-White's condition incited you to call for an ambulance, if you had experience with guests in a similar state?'

'As I said, she seemed delirious. She would pass in and out of consciousness, saying strange things. She tried to get up more than once while I was with her, but was far too sick to stand.'

He'd mentioned something like this back in the office. 'What kind of strange things?'

des Crete leaned forward to respond to me, as if sharing a private correspondence.[4]

'Her eyes would open wide, transfixed upon the ceiling. At first, her words would be soft, spoken to herself, but she would always repeat the same thing, with an increase in volume. " _She'll never forgive me. She'll never forgive me. She'll never forgive me._ " It was...disturbing to witness. I was alone with her at the time, and it was such a dark night, and we were in such an otherwise quiet room, I had to stifle fears gnawing inside me that the girl was possessed. " _She'll never forgive me. She'll never forgive me. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..._ " Then her head rolled back, unconscious again. I thought she needed to see a doctor at once.'

Sounds like she needed an exorcist, more than a doctor. Predictably, this ghoulish little tale had excited the audience. I needed to get des Crete to tell me everything of relevance, even if it didn't immediately seem helpful to my case, but even so, I felt bad for exposing something Cilla did in so public a sphere. I turned to meet her eye, to try and silently apologise, but she sat with her head in her hands, exhaling heavily in her seat. Did she even remember saying this last night? She didn't have to for it to signify something of painful significance.

The atmosphere of the courtroom had never felt so peculiarly charged. des Crete was continuously trying to entertain the galleries with salacious details of the case, holding a veneer of respectability to his public name while throwing mud on Cilla's. The crowd was eating it up – they had hoped this trial would be entertaining, and it certainly paid off for them. I stood in court to defend Cilla from the charge of murder, and in doing so, assisting with des Crete's gleeful besmirching of her reputation. I was her friend and her enemy. And while Carver seemed happy to whip up the vicious sentiment of the audience if it helped his case, he was silent now, looking down at his desk, his hands idly sorting papers just to do _something_. He was not as comfortable here as he initially seemed. He saw how Cilla had reacted to des Crete's anecdote, and he, too, had felt a line had been crossed. A line he could not object to, for it helped his case, but a line nonetheless.

' _In vino veritas_ has never entered the legal lexicon as other Latin phrases have, but I do not think I need to go into much detail as to why this remark Mr. des Crete has brought up could be interpreted as an admission of guilt. Does the defence really wish to continue approaching this subject, despite the stress accrued on its client?'

'...The defence has no further questions.' The words were hardly out of my mouth before I'd realised what I'd said. Was I giving up? Was it hopeless to fight for Cilla's innocence? Was this trial now about damage control, about arguing the rationale of a killing in an alleyway? I had powerful evidence on Chadwick. Cilla was alone, her thinking impaired, with a potentially dangerous fan. She could've just been protecting herself. It was a terrible thing to happen, but it wasn't cold-blooded, it wasn't _evil_ , it...No. I couldn't think like that. Not yet.

'No further questions, except—'

'Mr. Wright, I would ask you to watch your language. I will allow you to ask one further question to Mr. des Crete, but if I feel you are merely trying to prolong the cross-examination without cause, you will be penalised. Understood?' The Judge bore down on me hard. "No further questions" meant what it said. Allowing me another question was a mark of generosity from him. I wouldn't let it go to waste.

'I understand, Your Honor. I have only one further question to ask of Mr. des Crete. But first, I must ask it to Prosecutor Carver— _what about the gun?_ '

It took a moment for Carver to register I was addressing him and not des Crete. 'The gun? I don't understand what you mean, Mr. Wright.'

'Of course you do. The gun. You alluded to it before I began cross-examining Mr. des Crete. I interrupted you, quite rudely as I now realise. Before I complete my cross-examination of Mr. des Crete, I need to know about the gun.'

Carver smiled, but it wasn't the same " _exactly as planned_ " smile as before. It was the kind of way you'd smile if someone asked you a question and you had no idea what they'd said, but felt too embarrassed to ask them to repeat themselves.

'I hadn't been hiding this piece of decisive evidence, Your Honor—it simply did not seem relevant to the present witness's testimony. Allow me to submit the murder weapon, a Mortice 10x20 pistol, to the court.' He held up a plastic bag containing a black pistol.

'This gun was found in the possession of the defendant and bears her fingerprints. The victim was shot three times, and this gun was fired three times. It is crucial to my prosecution of this case, and it is something I believe the defence was aware of before it was formally introduced here. Why does Mr. Wright wish for me to highlight incredibly decisive evidence against him now?'

'It's quite simple,' I said to Carver, before turning to face des Crete. 'You never mentioned Cilla having a gun in your testimony. _What happened to it?_ '

Silence reigned in the courtroom, but it was not a hushed, awed silence. If anything, it was mildly baffled. Why was I bringing up the gun now? How could that help my case? How did the gun relate to des Crete's testimony? I'm sure many of the spectators thought I was pulling at straws. From seeing the Judge's puzzled face, he evidently had no idea what I was doing. Which was fair, because I only had half a clue where this might lead.

'I-I-I'm not sure I understand the question, Mr. Wright. What happened to the gun? Ms. Kay-White had it all along...she was found with it, is that what the police say?'

'That is, but I was wondering what _you_ say. Where was Cilla's gun when you were looking after her in the hotel? Didn't you see it?'

'I-I-I-I-I...' des Crete's hands started fumbling about with his oversized monocle, covering his face, as if it had some factor in his stuttering. Then a familiar bellow erupted from his body. 'I must have...I MEAN, YES! OF COOOURSE I SAW THE GUN! H-how frrrrightening it was!'

'Mr. des Crete, there is no need to shout.' Carver spoke through gritted teeth. He'd done a lot of work ironing out the night manager's quirks, and now it was becoming undone.

'You MUST excuse me, Prosecutor, but Misterrrr Wright has just reminded me of HORRORS I have otherwise sought to forget! You ABSOLUTELY MUST allow me to speak about this!'

The Judge hit his gavel. 'Order, witness! I am getting older, but my hearing is still fine. If you wish to testify further, you must lower your voice.'

'You must make allowances for the elderly gentlemen of the courtroom, Mr. des Crete,' Carver said, struggling to keep irritation from his gentle tone.

'Yes, yessss—I WILL, ahem, I will keep my enthusiasms under control, Your Honor, Prosecutor. My heartfelt apologies. May I speak about the gun?'

'Of course,' Carver replied, a fatalistic edge to his words. This couldn't have been part of his plan. I had to capitalise.[5]

'Mr. Wright was right to ask me about the gun, for in doing so he has unearthed valuable memories deep within my consciousness, images that were locked away by stress and fear. I did not wish to speak about the gun because it frightened me so, but I understand now that circumstances, law and order and justice and so on, clearly demand it. You see, when Cilla was found, she was clutching an object tightly to her chest, like one would a baby—so tightly we could not see what it was, and despite her inebriated state, her grip was deathly firm. I did not register the importance of discovering what she was clutching until we had brought her into the hotel. The fear gnawing within me when she began to speak to herself in that possessed state was, in fact, exacerbated from the slacking of her grip, when she unconsciously revealed to me the terrible weapon. The situation was too dire for me to contain alone, so I had no choice but to call an ambulance. Thus, the night reveals itself. I apologise for the delay in providing such detail.'

'Your Honor, as Mr. des Crete has added several vital new details to his testimony, I request a cross-examination without the strict limit of one question you previously advised I adhere to.'

The Judge nodded his assent. 'Granted, Mr. Wright. Though I note that once I _did_ limit you to one question, you kept your remarks pertinent to the case. I will not formally limit your questions at present, but hope you do not resort to stalling again.'

Carver remained silent, looking over the papers of his case. _This_ testimony must've been new to him. Another nasty surprise and maybe I could turn the tide.

'Mr. des Crete, am I correct in understanding that you now claim that the murder weapon was in the defendant's possession from the moment she was found?'

'Yes. She was concealing something, I did not know _what_ , but then I saw it was a gun...'

'And you stand by your statement that you did not call the police?'

'No, I... I mean, yes. Yes, I didn't.'

'Despite the defendant being found with a weapon and saying something about seeking forgiveness, you did not feel it appropriate to call the police in this matter?'

'I—I—well, w-what does it matter how I felt, anyway? The police came regardless of whether or not I called! All I did was what I was told!'

'...What you were told?' It was Carver who spoke, stealing the words from my lips. It seems that if his witness was going to testify to events that he hadn't spoken about previously with Carver, then Carver had no reason not to note contradictions in his witness's testimony.

I pressed on. 'Did you just say someone _told you_ not to call the police, Mr. des Crete?'

'What? No. I didn't say that!' des Crete's voice quavered, along with his entire frame.

'You've stressed repeatedly in your testimony that, as the night manager of the hotel, you were in complete control of the situation from the moment Cilla Kay-White was discovered outside. You wouldn't take orders from anyone, so why do you now mention "doing what you were told"?'

'I am in complete control! O-or, I was that n-night! I must r-retract that earlier statement, nobody told me anything!'

'Explain yourself, des Crete. Why can't you keep your story straight? If you saw Cilla had a gun, you would've called the police, assuming you're a responsible citizen. But you didn't—and why not?'

'It's...it's not because I'm not a bad person or anything! I didn't kill anyone. She did! W-why are you questioning me? I have nothing further to say!'

'Witness!' The Judge was angry now, his face stern and solid as a mighty boulder. 'If you end your testimony here, it will be disregarded as evidence and you personally will be held in contempt of court. It is your duty to answer these questions honestly!'

'Then...Then...please, give me a moment to think! I have an explanation for everything! Y-you see, before I realised Cilla had a gun, I ran over to the hotel bar to fetch her a pint of water, a-and when I came back...' des Crete stopped, unsure how to finish his sentence. 'D-disregard that! I called for an ambulance, then went to fetch some water for her, and only when I came back did I realise she had a gun, but then police arrived before I had to call, so...so...'

Carver sighed and shook his head, looking at me and gesturing _he's all yours_. Nothing he could say would provide an adequate explanation to his witness's incoherence.

'Your new explanation not only contradicts your previous testimonies as to what you saw, but it's barely internally consistent. You're hiding things, des Crete. The game's over. Tell us what you know!'[6]

'Alright, alright! I give in! I have been...deceptive in my relation of the night's events, but the court must not take me to be deceitful! I'm an honest man; incredibly trustworthy, more than any night manager has a right to be! Why, my good character would suit a promotion above night manager far more—'

'Objection! Your Honor, I cannot allow Mr. des Crete to embarrass himself any further. He has damaged his reputation, and my prosecution, enough. We have no cause to listen to the ramblings of a perjurer.'

It was difficult to tell if Carver was trying to avoid des Crete revealing something important or if he was genuinely convinced having him speak on would be a waste of time. Stopping him now was no good for me—Cilla wouldn't be proven guilty by showing that des Crete was a perjurer. We needed to get the truth from him too.

'Hold it! Let the witness speak, if he's at last willing to tell the truth!'

'I would be interested in hearing from him as well. He must have a reason for deceiving us before,' said the Judge, and that was that. des Crete took a deep breath.

'What I offer before you now is the utmost truth. I had planned to bring Ms. Kay-White into the hotel covertly when she was found, but somehow, beyond my knowledge, Sylvester Coen knew of what had occurred. He burst into the back room where I'd brought her, demanding an explanation. I told him all that I knew, and as we stood there, Ms. Kay-White muttered her strange dialogue to herself, revealing the gun in her hand. I-I-I wanted to call the police, but Mr. Coen took hold of the situation immediately. He chased me from the room, telling me to ring an ambulance. Of course, I knew what time it was—I always keep track of such things—it was 2:45 AM. As soon as I made the call, I returned to the room where Cilla lay unconscious, but Mr. Coen had left. I only saw him again when police arrived alongside the ambulance.'

I knew he was hiding something about Coen! For once, I felt I could trust what des Crete was saying. 'Why didn't you tell us Mr. Coen was with you?'

'...When I went back to my apartment after my shift had ended early that morning, Mr. Coen was already there. Gave me a terrible fright, as you can imagine. He'd been working Cilla's case as soon as it became apparent she would be charged with murder, and demanded to speak to me. He told me I would be speaking in court, and that it was best we prepare my testimony together.'

'And that testimony included an alibi for him,' I said.

'Y-yes, well...the man is very persuasive. I was exhausted after a long and stressful night's work, and agreed on a testimony with him before I realised the significance of it. When I met you that afternoon' —des Crete looked at me—'I'd only had a few hours' sleep, and all of a sudden I was being questioned again and again. By defence attorneys. By policemen. By prosecutors. I didn't know what I was supposed to say, and what to conceal, or for what reason. The situation overwhelmed me. I must deeply apologise.'

'Human memory is a fallible thing,' the Judge conceded, 'but your conduct indicates today that, despite the circumstances you have provided, you wilfully intended to deceive this court. Your testimony cannot be accepted as reliable, credible evidence. You will be charged with perjury upon leaving the courtroom.'

'I must apologise also, Your Honor, for the conduct of my witness in leading this trial astray. If my service is required in prosecuting him for perjury, I shall gladly do so.' Carver said, pointedly avoiding having to look at des Crete, who was doing his best to look pathetic and downtrodden, like a stray dog in the rain. The crowd was murmuring amongst themselves, arguing about des Crete's testimony and intrigued by the new detail of Coen's appearance on the scene. I took little notice of it, being lost in thought. Things didn't feel right – it was all too simple and clean. I knew des Crete was hiding what had really happened, but...maybe I didn't expect him to give up so easily? The excuse for his misleading testimony came as readily as all his lies had, and already the "final truth" he provided seemed almost worthless. Was that really why he'd lied? If Coen had coached him towards the testimony he'd given today, why was it so full of holes? Why did it include the scandalous argument between Coen and Cilla? Indeed, why was it so damaging to the defence? Was Coen ready and willing to let Cilla take the fall for Chadwick's murder if it kept his name out of suspicion? The manipulative image des Crete presented of Sylvester Coen was certainly broadly aligned with what I understood of the media mogul, but too much was unclear. I needed to investigate.

'Your Honor, with Mr. des Crete's testimony now completely suspect, the prosecution cannot hope to continue its case on such poor ground. The defence requests adjournment of court, so that more investigation can be made.'

'Yes, that is correct. It seems I have no choice but to adjourn today's trial.'

'Not quite, Your Honor. May I suggest a recess instead? Mr. des Crete's testimony has proved unreliable, but thankfully, it is ancillary to the prosecution's aims. I told the court I had decisive physical evidence, witness testimony, and an argument elucidating the accused's motive. I still have enough to prove Ms. Kay-White guilty.'

Carver's condescending grin affixed itself on his face once more. He took an antique pocketwatch from his pocket, theatrically surveying the hour.

'It is time now for the prosecution to unmask its anonymous eyewitness.'


End file.
